Survivors
by Melody Wilde
Summary: A meeting between Sands and El Mariachi changes both their lives.
1. Part 1

This first part can be taken as a stand-alone, but there *is* more to the story, and I hope to find time to tell it. If you don't see enough action/angst in this part, stick around.  
  
Disclaimer: These guys do not belong to me. If they did, they wouldn't be sitting around talking to each other. This is being written for fun (certainly mine, if nobody else's), not profit. No copyright infringement intended.  
  
Survivors  
by Melody Wilde Part 1 of ?  
  
"Senor?"  
  
The steady movement of sandpaper against wood stilled, and the man in black looked up. "Si?"  
  
"//Luis thought you would want to know about this.//"  
  
He lay aside the shape of wood which was not yet a guitar and, lifting an eyebrow in question, took the newspaper from the boy's hand. It had been weeks since he had last read a newspaper-even longer since he had last seen the news upon the television. The news of the outside world no longer mattered so much to the man he had become again-a man of peace, a simple maker of guitars. Every night he prayed that this time he would be allowed to remain that man, that the outside world would never intrude upon him again, but, deep in his heart, he had not truly expected his prayers to be answered.  
  
"//Assassination Attempt!//"  
  
He read the story quickly-a complex plot to assassinate El Presidente, a plot which had failed due to an accident of fate-and felt his peace shatter. His eyes closed.  
  
"Sands."  
  
"//What?//"  
  
He shook his head and returned the paper with a quick "Gracias" and a dismissive flick of his hand. The boy grinned and scampered back to his playmates.  
  
It would be useless to continue to work upon the wood now. He did not want the feelings of hate and anger and frustration which were flowing through him to mar the fledgling soul of the guitar. Standing, he stretched, knocked the sawdust from his dark trousers, and turned to walk across the plaza to the church. There was coolness and peace inside the church. Perhaps he could borrow some of it for his heart.  
  
"//My son.//" The elderly priest greeted him as he entered the building and stopped to give his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness within. "//Is it well with you?//"  
  
"No, Padre," he murmured. He moved down the aisle, dropping to one knee to cross himself before sliding into a pew. He was not surprised to find the Padre lowering himself into the row before him and turning to face him.  
  
"//What troubles you, my son?//"  
  
"//There is a thing I should have done that I did not. A job left unfinished. Because of my omission, a good man almost died.//" He folded his hands and lay his forehead against them. Sands' voice echoed through his head. "The President *will* be killed, because he's that piece of good pork that needs to be balanced out." After the failed coup de etat, he had thought it was all over. Ended. Finito. So many had died that day. It had been foolish of him to believe that Sands had died too. Foolish not to hunt down the man's body, to make sure, one way or another, before he returned to his home and his peace.  
  
"//How can I help you?//"  
  
"//Pray with me. Pray *for* me.//"  
  
He slid to his knees as the padre's voice lifted in prayer. He tried to pray himself, but the words would not come. How could he ask his God to grant him the gift of continued peace when his carelessness had almost cost his country their leader? How would he ever be able to ask for God's forgiveness if he stayed here with his friends and his music and El Presidente died because he had done nothing? Quite possibly, he was the only person still alive who knew of Sands' twisted sense of making sure there was balance in the world. He might be the only person who could stop Sands before he struck again.  
  
"//My son?//"  
  
He gave up the attempt to communicate with his God. "//Padre, I am going to have to leave here for a time.//"  
  
The priest knew the man before him too well; he understood all that the words meant. He lay a hand on the bent head and said, in a broken voice, "//It grieves me.//"  
  
"//It grieves me also, Padre.//"  
  
"//Is there no other way?//"  
  
"//No. I must go and make this thing right.//"  
  
"//Then...//" The older man's hand lifted to make the sign of the cross. "//Go with God. Go with our prayers.//"  
  
Without another word, El Mariachi rose, crossed himself once more, and left the church.  
  
* * *  
  
Agent Sands-almost certainly *former* Agent by now, even if the C.I.A. hadn't been able to find him to personally disbar him or whatever it was that they did with good agents gone to their definition of bad-was lying on a blanket in the sun when he heard the sounds of Chicle Boy's footsteps running toward him. "Senor Sheldon! Senor Sheldon!"  
  
Cursing the day that, in a moment of pain and weakness, he had revealed his first name to the boy's mother, Sands rolled to one side to push himself to a sitting position. "Over here."  
  
"Senor Sheldon!"  
  
"Yes, Chiclet, I heard you the first six times. What is it?"  
  
"//The phone, Senor Sheldon. It beeps.//"  
  
"Beeps? What are you talking about?"  
  
"//The phone.//"  
  
"You people don't *have* a phone."  
  
"//*Your* phone,//" the boy said, as if speaking to an idiot.  
  
Sands felt something small and rectangular shoved into his hand. His fingers explored the surface of the cell phone and his head jerked to one side.  
  
"Well, golly, it *is* my phone. Where did you get this?"  
  
"//You threw it in the cab when...//" The boy's voice faltered. "//That day.//"  
  
"I remember *that*. How did it get *here*?"  
  
"//I took it.//" He could almost hear the boy shrug. "//I thought it might be worth money, but then...there was no need.//"  
  
No need at all. He had paid the family handsomely for taking him in and for finding a decent doctor who could keep his mouth shut and for taking care of him afterwards and hiding him from those on both sides of the law who were looking for him. He guessed it all had come close to cleaning out the largest of the secret bank accounts that he'd kept for emergencies-but if this didn't qualify as an emergency, he'd be fucked if he knew what ever would.  
  
"What does it say-on the display?" He held it toward the boy. Silence. "Is there a letter flashing on the screen?" he asked with exaggerated patience.  
  
"Si."  
  
He fumbled with the keys, which had grown significantly smaller in the past few weeks. "Gosh darn thing didn't work when I needed it, but it starts beeping *now*," he muttered. "Swell. Just swell. And the way things have been going for me, it's probably Publishers' Clearinghouse telling me I've missed my big chance to...ah."  
  
He had managed to find the correct key. "You have reached your voicemail. Please enter your password."  
  
"Password..." He held the phone out. "Chiclet, you know your numbers, right?"  
  
"Si."  
  
"Be a good boy and press these numbers on the phone then, okay? 1. 9. 8. 4."  
  
"1, 9, 8, 4."  
  
"Yeah." He gave a tight smile. "Good year. Too bad we didn't get there. Now *that* was some kind of balance."  
  
"//Done, Senor Sheldon.//"  
  
"Good." He raised the phone back to his ear. "Now fuck off."  
  
The boy had grown used to the form of dismissal. Sands waited until he heard retreating footsteps, then held the phone back to his ear.  
  
"You have one new message. To hear your message, press the star key."  
  
That one was easy, even for a blind man. He pressed and waited.  
  
"January 21, 1:54 p.m." The mechanical voice gave way to another. "Sands."  
  
"*Fuck*." His arm jerked involuntarily with shock and he almost dropped the phone. The voice in his ear went on, soft, almost caressing.  
  
"I am sure that you did not expect to hear my voice, but after what has happened, I think it is time that we meet again, to talk of the past and of the future. Thursday. The Plaza del Oro. There is a restaurant that serves adequate pork. Noon."  
  
"To delete this message, press 7. To save this message, press 9. To replay this message..."  
  
He pressed the "replay" button to listen once more, then his thumb groped across the numbers, pressing at random until he heard the beep announcing that the call had been terminated. El Mariachi. What the hell did he want?  
  
"What has happened? What the hell has happened?" He raised his voice. "Chiclet!"  
  
"Si?"  
  
"What day is this?" "//I don't know, Senor Sheldon. Should I ask Mama?//"  
  
"Why don't you do that." He shoved the phone into the pocket of his shorts. "And while you're at it, see if you can find a newspaper."  
  
"Si, Senor Sheldon."  
  
As he pushed himself to his feet to follow the boy, he muttered, "I knew it was too good to last."  
  
* * *  
  
It was the first time he'd been farther than a half-block or so away from his new home since the day he'd arrived there looking like a poster child for the holiday the country was celebrating. It was a long walk to the Plaza del Oro, and the boy had had to stop twice to let him rest. All those weeks of lying about in the sun and doing nothing had been great for the healing process, but it had shot his endurance to hell.  
  
"Fucking weakling."  
  
"Senor?"  
  
"Sorry. Thinking out loud. I'm ready to go on now."  
  
They moved on through the heat and the darkness. At least the boy had gotten better since that first day about not leading him into things that hung over the sidewalk.  
  
When Mamacita had read him the headline, he'd known why The Man With the Guitar wanted to see him. It had been a brilliant plan, one he almost wished he'd thought of himself, but the fate of El Presidente no longer mattered to him the way it had three months-or a lifetime-ago. These days, when he thought of "keeping the balance" the phrase had a whole new meaning.  
  
He wondered if El had any idea what had happened to him that day-if he knew just how incapable Sands was at that very moment of even planning a coup, much less setting it in motion. He'd lost his contacts, one way or another. He shook his head. Perhaps he had been a little hasty with Belini. If Belini were still alive, he would've been a good man to trust not to be trusted. But since he had no one to act as a go-between, he was forced to go and meet with El Mariachi himself and try to convince the man of his innocence. It wasn't so much that he cared what El thought of him; it was more that he knew El was capable of hunting him down and killing him without giving him a chance to say a word. This was the better way of dealing--  
  
"Ouch!"  
  
"//Sorry, Senor Sheldon. I didn't see it.//"  
  
"Yes, well, obviously, neither did I. Could we maybe walk closer to the curb?" The boy was better as a guide dog, but not perfect yet.  
  
"//We're here, senor.//"  
  
"Peachy. What time is it?"  
  
"//Just past eleven.//"  
  
Plenty of time for Chiclet to get him spatially oriented and for him to be seated when El arrived. He just hoped the man had been serious about wanting to talk-that he wouldn't come in shooting first and asking questions later-but it was a chance he'd have to take.  
  
He wished the kid hadn't left his fake arm behind in the street that day. And that he had a better weapon than the small gun he'd once carried in his crotch as a backup. Chiclet had sold the other weapons long ago, sold them to pay for the doctor, actually, so he couldn't really complain, but still... If only he'd been lucid enough at the time to tell them about the bank account. But what was done was done, and he'd make the best of what he had.  
  
"//Here, senor.//"  
  
The kid helped him into a chair, facing the door, as he'd been instructed. "Tell me about the place."  
  
"Senor?"  
  
"Where's the bar? Is there a back door? Where is it? Is there anything between me and it? Things like that."  
  
"//The bar is that way...//"  
  
"Chiclet." He sighed. "It doesn't work to *point*-not with me."  
  
"//The bar is to the left...//"  
  
"Your left or my left."  
  
"//My left.//"  
  
It took another five minutes-and most of his patience-to learn that the second exit was at his back, toward the right, and that there were no tables between him and it.  
  
"Perfect." Or as good as it was going to be. "Now make yourself scarce for a couple of hours."  
  
"//You don't want me to stay?//"  
  
"That would be nice, but I don't think your mother would want you to be here if things get messy. Go sell some gum or something and come pick me up later. Or pick up the pieces."  
  
"Senor?"  
  
"Fuck off, Chiclet."  
  
He heard the patter of the boy's feet and the slam of the door, then adjusted his sunglasses and raised a hand to signal the waitress.  
  
* * *  
  
He had thought to arrive first, but when he paused just outside the door and peered through the glass, he saw that Agent Sands was already sitting at a small table toward the back of the restaurant. Sands seemed to be alone. There was a great temptation, born of his anger at this man and at himself, to walk in and kill him with no words and then return to his village and his peace. But no-if he allowed his anger to rule, he would never have a chance to learn the names of the others involved in Sands' schemes. He could not allow himself the luxury of anger.  
  
Sands seemed unaware of his approach as he moved between the tables and stopped before the agent's. At the last moment, Sands' head came up and the dark, oversize sunglasses turned toward him.  
  
"El." Sands gave one of his half-smiles and gestured toward the other chair. "Welcome. Please-join me. I hope you don't mind that I started without you. I told them to bring an order for you as soon as you got here. This isn't the best pork I've ever had-nothing to shoot the cook over, certainly-but I think you won't be too displeased."  
  
He sat, studying the man. Although he had met Agent Sands only once, and that months before, the man's image was burned into his brain. There was something different about him now, something not of his words or his gestures or the black clothing replacing the foolish cowboy garb. He was thinner, and there were lines about his mouth and jaw which seemed to El Mariachi to speak of long-standing pain.  
  
"Well golly, El, here we are just like you wanted, and you're just sitting there not saying a word. Usually when somebody asks me out on a date they have something to say to me. Or if they aren't interested in the fine art of conversation, at least they want to-"  
  
"You talk too much."  
  
"This is undoubtedly going to surprise you, but you're not the first person who's told me that." He raised a hand. "Okay. Sorry. I'll be quiet. Your turn."  
  
"Why did you do it?"  
  
Sands' brow furrowed. "'Do it'? Do what? Shoot the cook? Order the pork? Try to-"  
  
"Why did you become involved with another plan to kill El Presidente?"  
  
"Innocent. Wasn't me."  
  
"I do not believe you."  
  
"I was afraid you wouldn't, but it's the truth."  
  
"Before, you said he should die."  
  
"That was *before*. This is *now*. I really and truly *have* gotten past all that killing El Presidente and organizing a coup stuff. No joke."  
  
"If it is not to interfere in our country, why have you remained in Mexico?"  
  
"That's sort of a long story that I'd rather not go into right now. But it's been strictly for personal reasons-nothing to do with your government." He made a gesture. "Cross my heart and all that."  
  
"I do not believe you," he repeated. "I do not believe it is in your nature not to meddle."  
  
Sands gave a short, mirthless bark of laughter. "I've given up meddling."  
  
"And what do you do instead?"  
  
"Well, actually, I've spent the last three months-give or take a week- soaking up the sun and working on my tan. Not plotting. Not even thinking that much, actually." His fork moved across the plate, spearing a piece of pork. "Would you like to try a bite of mine while we're waiting for your order-"  
  
He slammed his hand down on the table, then glanced around with a quick, "Pardon" for the few other patrons inside. Sands went very still, his only movement two short, quick twitches of his head from side to side.  
  
"Someone attempted to assassinate El Presidente."  
  
"I heard. It. Wasn't. Me. I. Had. Nothing. To. Do. With. It."  
  
He leaned forward, putting menace in his face and voice and stance. "There is no reason for me to think you are not involved with this, as you were with the failed coup on the Day of the Dead. If you tell me who is working with you-what your plans are-I may let you live and escape back to your own country to face their justice. If you do not..."  
  
"I wish I could help you, El-honest, I *do*-but I am *so* out of this loop that-"  
  
"Enough!" He stood, kicking the chair back, away from him. Sands' head snapped up to follow the movement and his throat worked.  
  
"Gee, I hope you're not leaving so soon. We've barely had time to-"  
  
He reached across the table and seized Sands by the front of his shirt, dragging the agent to his feet even as he glanced around the room for the back exit. With another nod of apologies to the startled patrons, he shoved Sands to the door and through it, into the alley beyond.  
  
"Wait. I didn't pay for my food."  
  
He spun the slighter man, slamming him into the wall. One of Sands' hands flew up to hold his oversize sunglasses in place.  
  
"You really need a course in anger management, El."  
  
His hands tightened. "I should have killed you the day I met you."  
  
"Yes, well, this is undoubtedly going to surprise you, but you're not the first person who's said that to me either."  
  
His arm came up and he backhanded the other man across the face with all the force he could muster. Sands' head jerked sideways and he went down with a gasp of pain, the sunglasses flying off to land in the dust.  
  
"You have tried to destroy my country, not once, but twice. God will forgive me for killing you, but I will never be able to forgive myself for *not* killing you months ago." He bent forward and his fingers tangled brutally in the dark hair, pulling Sands' head up. "I should have-"  
  
He saw Sands' face.  
  
"Madre de Dios." His hand went limp, and he stepped back in shock, crossing himself.  
  
"Yeah, they're a real conversation stopper, that's for sure. Not that I have personal knowledge, of course, having never seen them myself." Sands pulled off a glove and drew the back of his hand across his mouth, working his jaw. "Am I bleeding?" When there was no reply, he touched the corner of his lip gently with fingertips. "It feels like I'm bleeding. Could you at least quit staring and hand me my glasses?"  
  
"Madre de Dios."  
  
"You're getting repetitive, El. You need to broaden your vocabulary." Sands reached out, fumbling about himself, until his hand touched an earpiece. "Come on-you're a gunman. You've been around. Haven't you ever seen a man who's had his eyes gouged out?" He gave a tight smile and slipped the sunglasses back into place.  
  
"Who did this to you? Why?"  
  
"Does it matter?" Sands levered himself to his feet and leaned against the wall. "I guess I'm just that kind of a guy. I mean, five seconds ago weren't *you* ready to blow my head off? And let me tell you, having your head blown off is probably a lot less painful in the long run than having your eyes removed without anesthetic."  
  
"Madre de Dios."  
  
"There you go again." Sands fumbled in a pocket. "I don't suppose you have a hanky or something. Mamacita just got the blood out of this shirt. I don't think I have the balls to take it back to her with more on it."  
  
"Come inside." He caught the agent's arm and began to steer him back toward the door, but Sands balked.  
  
"I can walk."  
  
"Si. Forgive me."  
  
Sands smiled again. "Does this mean we're going to be best friends now?"  
  
"No. But it means I am not going to kill you just yet. It means you will talk, and I will listen."  
  
"Groovy."  
  
* * *  
  
After informing El that he could walk all by himself, he had just *had* to run into another overhang on the way back in. He'd been surprised-and somewhat disconcerted-to hear a sound of sympathy from the gunman instead of laughter.  
  
The remains of his food had been taken away, but El ordered another tequila and lime and a bottle of water and a clean napkin. They sat in silence until it arrived, then El dampened the napkin and handed it to him.  
  
"Here. The right side of your lip is bleeding."  
  
He pressed the cold cloth to his mouth. "Don't think you can charm me with kindness," he mumbled around it. "After all, you're the one who's responsible for it bleeding in the first place."  
  
"Should I tell you I am sorry?"  
  
"Are you?"  
  
"Maybe I will be. Tell me what happened to you."  
  
"I'd really rather not. Some things you just do *not* want to revisit, you know. Out of sight, out of mind...if you'll pardon the expression."  
  
"Tell me."  
  
He lowered the cloth. "Stopped?"  
  
"Mostly. Tell me."  
  
He didn't want to talk about it-in fact, he'd spent weeks not talking about it or thinking about it any more than he had to-but it seemed he didn't have a choice now. If he wanted to make El believe him-if he wanted to walk out of this restaurant alive-he was going to have to go back there, no matter how it hurt. And he did want to walk out alive. And what the hell did it matter anyway now.  
  
"You have quite a punch there, amigo." He lay down the cloth with a sigh. "Okay. What do you want to know?"  
  
"Who did this to you?"  
  
"Barillo gave the order. His doctor friend used the drill. Here's a good rule to remember as you walk life's happy road: Don't piss off somebody who has a doctor friend who enjoys torture."  
  
"He used a drill?"  
  
Sands could hear the shock in El's voice, and that surprised him. After all he'd read in his background check about the life and deeds of El Mariachi, he *did* think the man would be more desensitized to pain and death.  
  
"Oh yes. And he enjoyed it. His smiling face was the last thing I saw." He reached for the tequila and sipped. "Not a very pleasant person, our Dr. Guevera."  
  
"Tell me, Senor Sands, how did your plan go so terribly wrong for you?"  
  
"Ajedrez."  
  
"Ajedrez?"  
  
"That's right-you never had the pleasure, did you? She was AFN-supposedly working with me to bring down the Barillo cartel. More of that interagency cooperation you hear so much about. At least I *thought* she was working with me. Of course, when it came to her, I did a lot of thinking with my dick."  
  
"It happens. She slept with you?"  
  
"Oh yes. She slept with me." A corner of his mouth twitched up at the memory. "And she was good. I wish I'd paid a bit more attention and enjoyed it more."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Oh gee, I don't know. Because she's probably the last woman who'll ever fuck me now?"  
  
El laughed. Somehow it was more reassuring rather than offensive. "Go on."  
  
"I knew something was going wrong that day-that things were falling apart- but I didn't know what. Then Ajedrez and Dr. Guevera caught up with me at the Flying Cow. She distracted me while he stuck a needle in my neck. When I woke up..."  
  
He really did not want to continue, which was pretty amazing for somebody who loved to talk as much as he did. But El remained silent, and he had the feeling the man would continue to remain silent until he had finished the story.  
  
"When I woke up, she and Guevera were there with Barillo. She told me she was Barillo's daughter. Barillo looked like something out of one of those old horror movies-not that I should talk, of course. He said I'd seen too much." He felt his hands begin to tremble and dropped them below the table to hide them. "And so Guevera took his drill and fixed it so I'd never see anything again. Then they all went away and left me alone. The end."  
  
No, not quite the end. He had heard the men going, then felt soft lips against his ear. Someone was moaning annoyingly, but, above the sound, he could hear Ajedrez's whisper. "You wait right here, sugarbutt. I'll be back for you as soon as Daddy's done meeting with General Marquez, and then you and I will have some *real* fun." It was that, more than anything else, that had motivated him to get up and out into the street and away from there.  
  
The waitress came by and he heard the chink of a plate being set upon the table. "Ah. Your pork at last."  
  
"//Would you like something else//?"  
  
He waved the waitress away. "I'm fine."  
  
He heard a fork scrape against a plate, then, "How did you manage to survive that day, after what had been done to you?"  
  
"I don't know." He shrugged. "Dumb luck. Stupidity. Not knowing when to give up. Somebody Up There playing a really nasty joke on me. Take your pick." He tilted his head to one side. "Probably stupidity, since I went right out into the street and managed to get myself shot several times. It wasn't a particularly good day for me."  
  
El made another sound that might have been a laugh. "And how did you come to be here?"  
  
"Well, you invited me, remember? And it had been a long time since I'd had pork and tequila, so I thought I'd give the place a chance."  
  
For a moment, the only sounds were those of El eating. Then he said in a low voice, "You know, somehow I am beginning to find you more amusing than annoying. I do not think this is a good thing, since I came here to kill you."  
  
"If it's amusement you want...have you heard the one about the CIA agent and the FBI man who walked into a bar and-"  
  
"Perhaps I have been wrong. Perhaps you were not involved in this business."  
  
"Believe me, El, for the past three months all I've thought about or cared about is surviving. Sitting in the sun and being alive and sometimes not hurting too much. Oh, I wouldn't say that if somebody gave me my eyes back I wouldn't go right out and get back to my agenda of restoring the balance...but I don't think that's likely to happen." He gave a half- smile. "The way things are, it's the last thing on my mind."  
  
More silence, then, "What will you do now?"  
  
"Someone's been helping me. I guess I'll stay with them 'til the money runs out and they toss me out in the street. After that..." He shrugged.  
  
"Helping you...?"  
  
His mouth tightened defensively. "That's none of your business. If you have a problem with me, it's just with me, not them."  
  
"They both died that day, you know." The change of subject disoriented him. "Who?"  
  
"Barillo. Guevera."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"I was there."  
  
"That's just swell. It's a little late to help me, but I guess I'm just spiteful enough to be glad they didn't get away with it. And Marquez?"  
  
"Dead."  
  
"And so is she. Ajedrez. I killed her." He reached for the glass again and began to turn it between his palms. "So everything's all neat and tidy."  
  
"Except someone tried to assassinate El Presidente."  
  
The glass was cool. He really wished he could press it against his mouth, which was hurting like a bastard. All the talking wasn't helping it either.  
  
"If you're going to shoot me, I wish you'd go ahead and get it over with. If not...I really could use a siesta."  
  
"I am not going to kill you, Senor Sands." He heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back from the table and the sound of money being placed beside the plate. "My treat." There was a smile in the voice. "I do not know if you are a good man, but you are a brave man. I believe you."  
  
"Gracias."  
  
A hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "Vaya con dios."  
  
He nodded, then listened to the sounds of El Mariachi walking away. He waited until he heard the door close before he let his head droop. Suddenly, he was very very tired...and there was still the long walk back. With a sigh, he rested his elbows on the table and settled back to wait for Chiclet. 


	2. Part 2

Disclaimer: These guys do not belong to me. This is written for fun (mine and, I hope, yours), not for profit. No copyright infringement intended.  
  
Chicle Boy takes Sands home after his lunch with El Mariachi.  
  
~ ~ ~  
  
Survivors by Melody Wilde Part 2 of ?  
  
He was half-asleep-a really stupid thing to do, out in public like this- when he felt the hand tug on his elbow and heard the familiar, "Senor Sheldon?"  
  
"Finally. What took you so long?"  
  
"//You said to come back in two hours, Senor Sheldon.//"  
  
"Yeah, so I did." He reached for the glass and had one last fortifying swallow of tequila, then shoved his chair back from the table.  
  
"//What happened to your face?//"  
  
"Well, they ripped my eyes out, remember? I can't believe even you could forget that in just two hours."  
  
"//No. Here.//"  
  
He felt a tentative touch on his jaw. "Oh. That. Just a souvenir of a lovely luncheon with an old friend." He pushed himself up, appalled at the way his legs seemed to have turned to jelly. "We are going to have to start an exercise program and get back in shape," he said, more to himself than to the kid. "First thing tomorrow. Or the day after."  
  
The walk back was endless. He wasn't sure which was worse-having to listen to Chiclet talk non-stop about his mid-day adventures downtown or having to stop every five minutes so he could rest. By the time they finally reached the little house on the outskirts of the city, he was almost stumbling with exhaustion.  
  
"//You have to go inside, Senor Sheldon.//"  
  
"What? No." He tried to pull away.  
  
"//You have to let Madre take care of you. She will be very angry if I let you go before she has seen to your hurt.//"  
  
"It's okay. Really. All I need is about two days of sleep." The grip on his hand tightened, and he realized it would be easier and quicker just to give in. "Right. Okay, let's get it over with then."  
  
Chiclet led him into the house and through to the kitchen. "//Here, Senor Sheldon. I'll get Madre.//"  
  
He dropped into the chair. "If I sit down and can't get back up again..."  
  
"//What is... Sheldon!//" He heard a heavier tread and felt gentle fingers on his cheek. "//Sit, sit, my poor baby, my beautiful boy. Who did this to you?//"  
  
The outrage in her voice would have made him smile if he'd had the energy.  
  
"//Go! Get ice for this!//"  
  
Chiclet hurried off to do her bidding. Mamacita began to bustle around the kitchen, muttering curses under her breath. He leaned back and let the sounds wash over him and allowed himself a half-smile.  
  
He had no idea what Mamacita looked like-or even what her name really was. When he had first come here, drowning in blood and pain, it had sort of been the last thing on his mind. Later...somehow it had never mattered, just like it had never mattered what had become of her husband-if there ever was one-or any other children she might have had or how old she was or what she looked like. She was just Mamacita. And she might well be his junior, but from the moment he had begun to heal, she had treated him as if he were Chiclet's brother-Chiclet's younger, simple-minded brother. Somehow he mostly hadn't minded.  
  
She was back, pressing a soft, damp cloth to his cheek. As she began to clean his face with her careful movements, never even coming close to touching the glasses, he found himself leaning toward her. Sometimes-like now-he wanted to give in to the fantasy and let her be the mother he'd never known. Let her hold him and cry against her shoulder...if he was still able to cry, that is.  
  
"I'm fucking going soft," he muttered.  
  
"//What?//"  
  
He shook his head and shook away the fantasy. She and the kid had been kinder to him than anyone ever had in his entire life, but he couldn't forget that they were getting paid to be kind to him. Things would change when his money ran out.  
  
"//Here, Madre.//"  
  
He heard the rattle of ice in a bag. "//Good, good. Did you see who did this to him?//"  
  
"//No, Madre.//"  
  
"//Why not?//"  
  
"//I was not at the restaurant.//"  
  
"//You left him *alone* in the city?//" There was a definite promise of punishment to come in her tone.  
  
"//He said-//"  
  
"//It does not matter what he said to you. You should know better than to leave him alone in such a busy place. There are men in the city who are no better than animals. That someone would hurt a helpless blind man...//" She clucked again. "//It is a sin!//"  
  
He flinched.  
  
"//Did I hurt you?//"  
  
"Only my feelings."  
  
"//What?//"  
  
"Nothing. Nothing." He'd had enough. "Gracias, Mamacita." He forced himself to his feet. "Home, Chiclet. Don't forget the ice."  
  
"Si, Senor Sheldon."  
  
His personal new home was some sort of shed that belonged to their neighbor. He had a sneaking suspicion that the place had previously housed a donkey or cow, but while he'd been busy screaming with pain, Mamacita and Chiclet had been busy turning it into a place for him to live when he was able to be alone. They'd cleaned it and hung a curtain over the door for privacy and put a narrow bed along one side. Mamacita had even made sure he had a soft pillow with a silky covering, to protect the ruin of his eyes.  
  
"Did somebody move my place?" he muttered after they had been walking for what must have been an hour.  
  
"Senor?"  
  
"It seems farther away than it did this morning. You're not taking the long way around, are you?"  
  
Chiclet laughed. "//Here, Senor//."  
  
The kid placed his hand on the door frame. He sighed with relief and took the necessary two steps forward, turned and let the back of his knees touch the bed, and then let go, falling sideways onto the thin mattress.  
  
"//Should I stay to watch over you?//"  
  
"No...I'm okay..." He barely felt Chiclet lifting his feet onto the bed and placing the makeshift ice pack against his face.  
  
In his dream, as in many of his dreams that weren't nightmares, he could see again. He sauntered down a dusty street, cell phone in his hand, in control, looking for action, living la vida loca. He set things up and watched them fall. He threw shapes and...  
  
A shape that he had not thrown-a large dark shape--moved out from an alleyway in front of him, blocking his path. He stopped and looked up, not quite able to make out the being's face. A shadow crossed the sun and the street dimmed. An icy wind sprang up, blowing his hair across his face. He reached up to rake it back, but his vision was blurring, going, going... The dark figure was raising a weapon, but he couldn't find his gun. He had nothing but the stupid fucking cell phone to fight with and the creature was coming toward him and there was gunfire and screams...  
  
He jerked awake. The screams were real.  
  
"Fuck!" He rolled over, dropping off the bed and reaching for his gun all in one smooth, practiced movement. "Can't a man even get an uninterrupted siesta around here?"  
  
The screams were coming from the direction of the house. Moving slowly, his head cocked to one side to listen, he leaned forward and pushed back a corner of the door curtain.  
  
Someone was running toward the shed, breathing in great gulping sobs. The kid. He took a chance, whipping out the door and ducking around the corner. He reached out and managed to grab Chiclet as the boy ran by, dragging him behind the shed and fumbling a hand over his mouth.  
  
"Silencio!" he hissed. He felt Chiclet's head move in a nod and removed his hand. "What's going on out there? Another revolution?"  
  
"//Men with guns. They shot Madre and then they-//"  
  
He heard the boy's voice rising and tightened his grip. "Don't get hysterical on me, kid." He was feeling just the tiniest bit inclined to be hysterical himself, trapped in the dark without a fucking clue what was going on. "What did they want?"  
  
"//You.//"  
  
That was a shocker. "*Me*?"  
  
"//They asked for you, and when Madre said she did not know you, they...they...//"  
  
"Okay, okay. I get the picture." Holy fucking shit. "Were they Americans?"  
  
"No."  
  
Probably not CIA then. El's buddies? No, if El wanted him dead, he'd had his own chance; he wasn't the type to walk away and pass it along to somebody else to do. And it wasn't El's style to shoot down innocent women anyway.  
  
"Okay, here's what we're going to do. I want you to run like hell away from here, comprende?"  
  
"//But, Senor...//"  
  
"Shut up. Don't come back without help. Bring whoever you can. The police, the Marines, the National Guard, whatever."  
  
"//You will go with me?//"  
  
The screams stopped abruptly, and he heard the slam of a door. "I fucking can *not* believe I'm saying this." He lay a hand on the kid's back and shoved. "Run. I'll keep them busy."  
  
Chiclet flung his arms around his waist in a tight hug. He almost returned it.  
  
"Get going, kid," he said urgently. "Fuck off!"  
  
He waited until he heard the sound of the boy's footsteps retreating and heard someone-heavy tread, a big man-break into a run after him. Then he raised his woefully inadequate gun and stepped out into the man's path.  
  
"Are you looking for me, asshole?"  
  
The man gave a gasp of surprise, and Sands shot him. He heard the body fall, then more running steps. He took aim at the sounds and fired again, then again, vaguely surprised that they weren't firing back.  
  
"//Don't kill him!//"  
  
Well, that explained *that*. Not wanted dead or alive then. That gave him a definite advantage, since he had no restrictions at all about not killing *them*. He aimed in the direction of the voice and pulled the trigger again...and heard the click of an empty chamber.  
  
"Fuck!"  
  
Then hands were on him, grabbing his arms, twisting the gun out of his hand, trying to push him to the ground. Fury and panic sent a rush of adrenaline through his body, and he flung his free arm up, feeling his elbow connect and hearing the satisfying crunch of bone.  
  
"Puta madre!"  
  
"Almost undoubtedly." He spun, bringing his knee up.  
  
He heard the warning whistle of sound a split second before something struck the back of his head. He found himself on his knees, dizzy-how can the world spin when I can't see it?-and sick with the sudden pain.  
  
"Blinding pain," he muttered. "Too late-somebody beat you to it."  
  
They shoved him forward and his face hit the ground. He jerked, trying to kick backwards, as someone dragged his arms behind him. His head was shoved down again, his cheek slamming into gravel this time.  
  
Peachy. That just undid all Mamacita's hard work.  
  
"Mamacita. If you fuckers have hurt her..."  
  
One of them hit him again. He finally gave in and passed out.  
  
* * * * * 


	3. Part 3

Disclaimer: These guys do not belong to me. (They actually belong to Miss Becky, but don't tell Robert Rodriquez.) This is written for fun (and it is sometimes, when I'm not banging my head on the keyboard), not for profit. No copyright infringement intended.  
  
El follows and Sands wakes up.  
  
~ ~ ~  
  
Survivors by Melody Wilde Part 3 of ?  
  
After leaving Sands in the restaurant, he began to take a leisurely stroll around the plaza, pausing as if to browse in first one store, then another. At last, when he was sure he was not being followed, he turned a corner and moved quickly down the street to the place where Lorenzo was waiting with the car.  
  
Lorenzo began speaking before he even had the door open. "//I didn't hear shots. Did you kill him?//"  
  
"//Not just yet.//" He shook his head. "//Move the car so that we can see the door to the restaurant.//"  
  
"//What happened?//"  
  
"//I'm not sure.//"  
  
He leaned back in the seat to think as the younger man started the car and pulled forward to a spot just close enough without being too close.  
  
Given the terrible thing that had happened to Sands, it was easy to believe that he had not been involved in the attempt upon El Presidente and that he no longer cared for such matters. However, it would cost nothing but a little time to see where Sands went from here. The man had said that he had friends who helped him. Since Sands would not divulge their names, there was only one way to find out-to be sure.  
  
And he *needed* to be sure if he were ever again to be at peace with himself over this matter. His belief in the man's innocence must be based on fact and reason, not on the pity he felt for the man's pain.  
  
"//Well? Are you going to tell me or not?//"  
  
"//He has been hurt.//" He reached into the back seat for a baseball cap and pulled it on, tucking his hair up beneath it and lowering the brim to hide his features.  
  
"//You hurt him?//"  
  
"//No.//"  
  
Lorenzo heaved an exaggerated sigh. "//When I said I would help you, I didn't know you were going to hold out on me.//"  
  
Silence.  
  
"//Driving the getaway car after you executed a traitor is one thing, but this is something else. I have the right to know what I might be getting into now.//"  
  
"//I do not know, my friend. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps...//"  
  
He slid down in the seat and crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the comforting weight of his guns beneath the jacket.  
  
"//So what are we going to do?//"  
  
"//Wait.//"  
  
The sun had passed its zenith and was beginning a downward path when he saw a boy in a yellow t-shirt go into the restaurant and emerge a few minutes later leading the blind agent. Sands looked very tired-his head was not held as high, his shoulders were rounded, his steps were slower. Life had been very unkind to Agent Sands.  
  
He didn't realize he had said the words aloud until Lorenzo said, "//That's him?//"  
  
He nodded.  
  
Lorenzo leaned forward for a closer look. "//He seems all right. And anyway, after what he did, doesn't he deserve anything that happened to him?//"  
  
"//No. No man deserves what has happened to this one.//"  
  
"//Should I follow them?//" Lorenzo's hand moved to the ignition.  
  
"//Yes, but keep- Wait!"  
  
A man who had been standing in a doorway across the street had stepped forward and was staring after Sands and the boy. As they watched, he started down the street after them, following at a discreet distance.  
  
"//Friend of theirs?//"  
  
"//I do not think so.//" His brow furrowed at this unexpected development. "//Perhaps this changes everything.//"  
  
"//How?//"  
  
"//It would seem that I am not the only one searching for Agent Sands.//"  
  
"//You think it's the CIA?//"  
  
"//No. Somehow I do not believe that this man is working for them.//" It was a gut feeling more than anything else-the same gut feeling that had assured him Sands had been telling the truth. But he could be wrong on both counts. If so, it would be most unwise to interfere.  
  
"//What should we do?//"  
  
The man was almost out of sight. "//Follow them, but keep far back. Do not let the boy or the other man see you.//"  
  
"//What about Sands?//"  
  
"//He cannot see you.//"  
  
It took the better part of the afternoon. After the tenth stop in less than two hours, Lorenzo turned to him with a grimace of irritation. "//Why don't we give up on this shit and just go pick them all up and ask what's going on?//"  
  
He scowled briefly at the impatience of youth. "//This is the way it must be. This is the only way we will learn the truth.//"  
  
"//We're heading east, you know. Before long, there won't be any places to hide the car when they stop.//"  
  
"//I know.//" He had been thinking about that almost from the beginning. "//At the next stop, you will stay with the car and I will follow on foot.//"  
  
Sands was up and moving again. Even from this distance, he could see the way the man's boots dragged in the dirt, as if he were barely able to lift his feet. He remembered feeling such weariness and made a low noise of sympathy.  
  
"//We could go offer him a ride.//"  
  
He gave Lorenzo a Look, and Lorenzo grinned back.  
  
Twenty minutes later, he left Lorenzo and the car on a side street, with a warning to the younger man to stay where he was, no matter what happened. Less than five minutes after that, Sands and the boy came to a halt in front of a small house. He circled behind a nearby building and found a spot where he could see without being seen.  
  
The man following them had all but given up trying to hide. The moment Sands and the boy went inside, he pulled out a cell phone, punched some numbers, then shook it, frowning. He tried again, then turned and hurried away, still re-dialing.  
  
Soon after, the boy led Sands out of the house and down to a shed in back of another house, then returned. All was quiet for a time, and he had almost decided to go back to where Lorenzo waited when a car pulled up in front of the house. Three men, plus the one who had followed Sands, jumped out and ran inside. The gunfire started almost immediately. He automatically reached for his gun and leaned forward.  
  
"//Wait. Wait,//" he murmured to himself.  
  
A woman began to scream, and this time he found it almost impossible to remain still. The boy ran from the house toward the shed. In a moment, a man followed, then another. He watched in awe as Sands stepped out into the path of the first man, shot him down, and then turned to shoot another. They were not firing back. This was some sort of arrest-or a kidnapping- not an assassination.  
  
When Sands ran out of bullets, the ensuing fight was beautiful in a terrible way. For a moment he thought Sands would best them all, and it made him smile. But then Sands was in the dirt, still struggling. He knew he had to decide-and quickly-what to do next.  
  
Dropping low, he moved back around the building and began to run back to the place where Lorenzo waited with the car.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The sound of an angry female voice seeped into his consciousness. Training and instinct stopped him from betraying the fact that he had returned to the land of the cognizant--kept him very still and kept his breathing regular and even.  
  
"//I told you not to hurt him until you brought him here!//"  
  
A man began to stammer explanations and apologies. "//We tried not to hurt him, but-//"  
  
"//I sent four of you-four!-after him. Four men and you couldn't bring back a helpless blind man without doing this!//"  
  
Sands thought vaguely that he was beginning to get a little tired of that phrase, even if it did seem to be accurate at this particular moment.  
  
"//But senorita-//"  
  
"//There are no excuses! Did you do this to him to give you time to rape the woman? Or the little boy?//"  
  
"//No, no! He killed Paulo and Roberto. There were only two of us left. The only way we could subdue him was-//"  
  
"//Holy Mother of God, I am surrounded by incompetents. I send four men and...//"  
  
Her tirade went on, her voice rising with each word, but he had suddenly lost interest. An elephant was driving a spike into the back of his head, and his body had begun to insist that projectile vomiting would be A Very Good Thing To Do. He let the words of the argument float around him as he had his own silent argument with his stomach.  
  
A door opened and he heard another man's voice, deeper, gentle. "//Sweetheart, you are upsetting yourself too much.//"  
  
"//Oh, Ramon, such men I have! Look at what they have done!//"  
  
He felt a hand on his chin, then his head was turned to one side. It took all his willpower to remain still-not to whimper with pain-as none-too- gentle fingers explored the back of his skull.  
  
"//He's only unconscious. He'll live.//" The man wiped his hand on Sands' shirt, and Sands caught a faint whiff of fresh blood. His stomach began to try to claw its way out of his body through the throat.  
  
"//Come now. Rest. He'll awaken later and you can speak with him.//"  
  
Oh yes, senor, good idea, great idea, super idea, peachy keen idea. You folks go away and leave me alone, and then I can take care of this little problem I'm having and then maybe I can start trying to figure out where I am and what the fuck's going on.  
  
"//Will it be safe to leave him here alone?//" one of the men asked.  
  
The woman gave an ugly laugh. "//He has no eyes and he has no friends. It is safe. Take me out, Ramon.//  
  
He heard the squeak of metal-wheels?-and footsteps. The door closed and a lock clicked. He counted to twenty, then counted again, then rolled to one side and began to vomit with an astonishing violence. He threw up the food he'd eaten at the meeting with El and then breakfast and then last night's supper. It didn't help the pain in his head, so his body told him to try again. And again. He heaved and retched until there was nothing left-not even water-then went limp, hanging half off and half on the bed.  
  
"I am never ever going to eat pork again. Ever."  
  
The tremor in his voice annoyed him. Okay, he was in a bad situation. A very bad situation. But he was still Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, and he should be able to deal with this. Three months ago, he would've already sent them all to fucking hell with his bare hands and been out of here.  
  
Ah, but three months ago I had eyes. Now I'm a helpless blind man, remember.  
  
Then deal with it and take control, the voice inside said sharply. You've spent more than enough time lying in the sun playing at being Mamacita's baby. It's time to get on with your life.  
  
Except, of course, that it's going to be a little hard to do just this minute, given the current little situation I'm in.  
  
Do *something*, dammit.  
  
He pushed himself up and slid carefully to the end of the bed, so he could stand without risk of slipping in the mess he'd made. He felt appallingly light-headed when he gained his feet and stretched out a hand.  
  
Wood. Handles. A chest of drawers. He was in a house, not the cell he'd expected to find himself in.  
  
What the fuck was going on here? Who had him-and why?  
  
His hands moved across the front of the wood and down the side. Wall.  
  
Not the CIA-the kid said these were Mexicans and, besides, the CIA *would* have him in a cell. The cartel? That would fit, but which cartel?  
  
Picture frame. It rattled sideways when he touched it and he froze, but there was no sound from outside the door.  
  
Of course, if there *were* a guard out there, all the puking certainly would've brought him running in several minutes ago. He hadn't exactly been able to be quiet about it.  
  
Beyond the picture, soft material. Curtains. And a window. His fingers moved faster, across the glass, searching.  
  
If not one of the cartels, then who? Who else had he pissed off enough to make them want to kidnap him? He gave a weak snort of laughter. Who *hadn't* he pissed off?  
  
There! He'd found the latch. It came open easily. He pulled the windows inward and felt a cool evening breeze across his face.  
  
Evening breeze. That means it's getting dark. That means if I go out the window, maybe nobody will see me in the dark and I can...  
  
Can what?  
  
That thought stopped him, even as he was lifting one leg to the windowsill. If he managed to get outside-always assuming the room he was in was on the ground floor and not in a penthouse suite someplace where the fall would kill him instantly-then what? He couldn't see where he was going. He'd be as likely to run into his captors as move away from them.  
  
Helpless blind man.  
  
"Fuck." He pressed his forehead against the glass and allowed himself one low moan of despair.  
  
At that moment the memory of the woman's voice chose to come floating back- the voice that had been speaking when he'd regained consciousness. He suddenly realized he knew that voice. He tilted his head to the side, trying to concentrate. If he could just place the voice, maybe he'd know where he was and...  
  
"Oh Jesus. Oh fucking goddamn son of a bitch." He knew.  
  
Ajedrez.  
  
It couldn't be. She was dead. He'd shot her and left her behind in the street when Chiclet had taken him away all those weeks before. She was *dead*.  
  
Yes, well so were you, sugarbutt.  
  
"Oh fuck."  
  
He grabbed the sill of the window and threw himself out. 


	4. Part 4

AN: Some overdue thank you notes. Thank you to everyone who's sent encouraging words my way (especially you, Miss Rebecca); you all help feed my delusion that I can write, so I keep on doing it. Thank you to my commandeered beta-reader, The Dread Pirate Nan (also briefly known as Chiclet, when she took care of an incredibly nearsighted writer the afternoon my glasses broke; sorry I called you "fuckmook"). And thanks to my sweet ItsABeau-I managed to get this part written in spite of all your help.  
  
I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money, etc.  
  
The happy reunion of Sands and Ajedrez. Or not.  
  
Survivors By Melody Wilde  
  
Part Four  
  
He drove past the entrance where the car had turned, carefully not looking in its direction. He had no need. He had recognized their destination. He had been taken there himself some months before, unconscious and unwilling. Remembering, he felt a surge of empathy for Sands.  
  
The Barillo estate. This became stranger and stranger. Armando Barillo and his evil doctor had died on the Day of the Dead as had many of his men. If there had been survivors-if they wanted revenge upon the man who had ended their empire-they should have come for him, not Sands.  
  
For a moment, he wished he had not sent Lorenzo to check upon the occupants of the house-that he had a second man to help in what was to come. Then he smiled. He had his guns. He had his guitar case. And, after seeing the way Sands had moved against the men who had come for him, he had the knowledge that Sands would make a formidable ally, blind or no. All he had to do was find the agent and give him a gun. Sands would become his second man.  
  
He pulled to the side of the road and began to plan his attack.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Some sort of prickly bush broke his fall. He disentangled himself and scooted away until his back was flattened against the side of the house. He held very still, straining to hear any sort of alarms or approaching footsteps. Nothing. So far so good. Somehow his sunglasses had even held on during the fall.  
  
He had a feeling that had been the easy part.  
  
If the voice he'd heard *did* belong to Ajedrez, then chances were good that he'd been brought to her late and unlamented father's estate. Part of him-the part that was terrified at the thought of what she would do to him- wanted to insist that he was mistaken. Another part said this gave him an advantage, because he'd done an extensive study of the layout of the Barillo estate back in the good old days when he wasn't...  
  
When he'd been in charge. When he'd been the one throwing the shadows.  
  
He turned his head from side to side, listening. His eyes might be gone but his memory was still intact. He remembered staring down at the plans, the sheets of paper and photographs spread on the table before him. The house there. The courtyard in front. The garage to the side. The bedrooms at the rear of the villa facing a wooded area. If he'd been in one of those bedrooms, then the woods should be straight ahead.  
  
Behind a six-foot wall, of course, but still there. It should be a snap.  
  
He rose carefully to his feet, took a deep breath, and began to move forward, one hand slightly out in front of him. The ground was level. Good. No trees. Better. No sounds of any sort. Best. He couldn't believe there were no guards, but maybe the cartel had been broken by Barillo's death. Maybe they'd packed up and taken their base of operations somewhere else and there were only a few men here with Ajedrez.  
  
And maybe I'm not where I think I am and I'm walking right into their waiting arms.  
  
His knuckles grazed the wall seconds before he collided with it. He stopped and quickly explored the surface. Rough stone. He ran a hand along the top-no spikes or glass, but a slight upward movement of his fingers told him there was at least one strand of barbed wire. Peachy. That was going to finish off the shirt for sure.  
  
He raised his arms, grasped the top of the wall, and heaved himself upward.  
  
And dropped back on his butt with a shocked gasp when his arms refused to pull him up.  
  
Get up, fuckmook, you stupid weakling helpless blind man, get up.  
  
This time he went for the wire, wrapping his fingers around it and ignoring the way the barbs cut into his flesh. He got a firm grip, then kicked upward, trying to throw himself over the wall the way he'd thrown himself out of the window. His arms began to tremble almost immediately, but he was ready this time and held on.  
  
"Up," he urged himself under his breath.  
  
His right bootheel caught the top of the wall. With the extra leverage, he was able to haul himself completely up. He let go with one hand, wiped the blood on his jeans, and reached out to count the strands of wire.  
  
"//Hey! You!//"  
  
He heard the sound of running feet and didn't even waste time with a curse. He tried to shove the lowest wire down and push himself through instead of over, but the sounds were suddenly just below him. Hands came up to grab his ankle and pull. He struggled, tangling in the wires, desperate to escape.  
  
"//Get a light over here!//"  
  
More running. More hands. And then the cold muzzle of a gun pressed against his cheek.  
  
"//Come down from there or I'll shoot.//"  
  
"Fuck."  
  
"//I said come down!//"  
  
He tried to move and discovered he was well and truly caught, in every way. The irony of the situation-he couldn't get away and he couldn't surrender- struck him, and he began to laugh.  
  
"Glad to, but I think you gentlemen are going to need to send for somebody with a ladder and some wire cutters."  
  
* * * * *  
  
He had watched the entire escape attempt from his hiding place high in a tree, had seen Sands try and fall and try again. He knew the attempt was doomed. He also had been watching the few men on patrol and knew they would stop him. But the attempt had been a brave one. Sands did not give up easily.  
  
He nodded to himself. Even a man who wanted nothing more than peace needed allies for the times when there could be no peace. Sands might become such an ally, and a valuable one, in time-perhaps someone to replace Fideo, whose drinking had worsened since his acquisition of so much money on the Day of the Dead.  
  
The guards did not bring the ladder or wire cutters. They dragged him down with no regard for the barbed wire. El Mariachi winced at the sounds of tearing cloth, but Sands made no further sound until he was on the ground again and they had forced him to his feet. Then he turned his head, as if he could see them, and said plainly, "Puta madre."  
  
Two of them seized his arms to hold him, and the one closest to him backhanded him. Remembering that he had struck Sands the same way earlier that day sent a wave of shame through him.  
  
"//Forgive me,//" he whispered to Sands and to his God.  
  
As they marched Sands away toward the house, he vowed that he would find a way to free Sands before the night was over.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"//We found this man trying to climb over the wall.//"  
  
He heard that odd metallic sound again, and footsteps, coming toward him. "//It would seem he's more resourceful than you gave him credit for, sweetheart.//" That was Ramon.  
  
"So it would seem." He heard a low laugh. "Hello, Sheldon." She said it the way she knew he hated, drawing out the syllables. "Long time no see. Did you miss me?"  
  
I am *not* going to freak out here.  
  
"Obviously," he drawled. "I thought my aim was better than that, especially at close range. Must've had something in my eye."  
  
"//Bring him here.//"  
  
They shoved him across the floor and into a chair. "Careful. You won't want to get blood on your furniture. Even if it *is* probably just tacky Mexican furniture."  
  
"//Tie his arms.//"  
  
"What-afraid of a helpless blind man?" He gave her a half smile. He knew it would be useless to struggle, so he sat motionless as they bound his arms to the arms of the wooden chair. They finished and he heard them step back.  
  
"//Ramon. Take me forward.//" The metallic sound again. Something bumped against his knee. A hand brushed his cheek, then lifted his sunglasses away. Soft fingers circled the hollows where his eyes had been.  
  
"Oh, Sheldon, your looks *have* been ruined." She brushed a fingernail across his eyebrow. "I'm glad."  
  
"Whatever makes you happy, sugarbutt."  
  
"Oh I'm very happy right now." The hand dropped away. "So very happy to have you here at last. Do you have any idea what you did to me?"  
  
He wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Besides try to kill you? Unsuccessfully, as it turns out."  
  
"Yes, you almost killed me. I almost bled to death in that street before Ramon found me and took me home. But you did more than that." Her voice went ugly. "The doctors saved my life, but I'll never walk again. I'll never be able to eat normally again. I'll never be able to bear a child for Ramon."  
  
Oh shit.  
  
He tried another smile. "Well at least you don't have to worry about PMS anymore. I have to tell you, you used to be a real bitch when-"  
  
She slapped him. He'd forgotten how hard she could hit. At least she hadn't lost that.  
  
"//Angel, don't distress yourself.//"  
  
"No, angel, don't distress yourself over me. Is that your real name, by the way? I'm sort of wondering what I should call you now. Ajedrez? Senorita Barillo? Angel? You bitch?"  
  
"Do you know what kept me alive when they expected me to die?"  
  
"I can't wait to hear."  
  
"Thinking about you."  
  
"Now that is just too sweet. I didn't know you cared. I really wish I could say the same, but-"  
  
He wasn't sure who slapped him that time.  
  
"I lay there with my life in ruins, and I thought about you. I thought about how I'd get out of the hospital and have my men hunt you down and bring you to me. And then I thought of all the things I'd do to you. It gave me something to live for."  
  
"I'm glad I could be of help. No, honestly."  
  
"Would you like to hear some of the things I considered."  
  
"Do I have a choice?"  
  
He heard the rustle of silk as she leaned closer, and then she began to tell him. He listened for a moment, noting the almost-sexual excitement in her tone, then became bored and tuned her out. He had better things to occupy his mind. Like what he was going to do if she actually tried some of the things she was outlining in loving detail.  
  
She'd been right about one thing at least. He had no friends. There were only two people in the world who even pretended they cared about him, and he couldn't count on any help from that quarter. Even if Mamacita had survived their attack and Chiclet had come back with the entire fucking National Guard, they had no idea where he was. He was on his own.  
  
He was on his own and this madwoman was going to torture him to death in the slowest and most painful manner she could devise.  
  
"And they called *me* crazy," he muttered.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing. Go on. This is fascinating."  
  
She did, and he let his mind wander off again. There was no way he was going to leave here alive. That meant he only had two options. He could die-slowly and painfully-or he could try to make her or one of her minions mad enough to forget themselves and kill him immediately. He decided he preferred the second option. And he decided he'd had enough of her little perverse fantasies.  
  
"You know," he interrupted, "you are one sick fuck."  
  
She was shocked into silence.  
  
"But I have to give you points for creativity. In fact, if you'd been as creative in the sack as you are with your torture plans, you and I would be running this country right now. Except for the thing about you being Barillo's daughter, of course."  
  
"//You fucking bastard.//"  
  
Ramon's voice. He turned his face toward the sound. "Oh good-it understands English. And you're absolutely right, senor. I *was* her fucking bastard. What about you? Were you her fucking bastard too? Were you fucking her at the same time I was? Didn't you mind those sloppy seconds-most men do. Most real men."  
  
"//I will tear your balls off!//" A hand grabbed him between the legs and tightened. He caught his breath and went lightheaded.  
  
"Ow," he said deliberately. "So, Ramon, you like guys too? Go ahead. Cop a feel. I don't mind." He made a kissing noise. "I've got nowhere else to be right now."  
  
Ramon released him, but he could hear the man's heavy breathing. He was furious. Good.  
  
"//Do not listen to him, my love. What I did with him was done out of necessity, for the good of my family. What I did with you was love.//"  
  
"Sloppy seconds," Sands repeated with a grin.  
  
"I think it's time to start on you." He heard the metallic noise, which he now realized was a wheelchair, move back. "//Break a bone.//"  
  
"//Which one?//"  
  
She gave a snort of exasperation. "//Does it matter? Break... No. Wait.//" Her laugh sent a chill down his spine. "//I will point. Since he cannot see, it will be...a surprise.//"  
  
He heard the sound of a rifle butt descending and jerked his head away. It landed on his left forearm with a force that took his breath.  
  
"//Again.//"  
  
I won't scream. I won't give her the satisfaction, the fucking goddamn bitch.  
  
"//Again.//"  
  
With the third blow, he could feel the bones shatter. I won't. I won't.  
  
"//Again.//"  
  
What the fuck does it matter?  
  
He threw his head back and screamed. 


	5. Part 5

AN: Apologies for the delay in finishing/posting this part. I hope you find it worth the wait. Thanks to The Dread Pirate Nan (my beta reader, who said this wasn't as bad as I *knew* it was) and to Miss Rebecca (for your encouragement; when you say I can do it, I think maybe I can).  
  
Disclaimer: Since everybody else says the guys don't belong to *them*, than maybe they can belong to me? No? Oh well. Most of these folks aren't mint. I'm just having some fun with them. (Yes, I know-odd definition of "fun".) No copyright infringement intended.  
  
Summary: Various sorts of revenge are sweet.  
  
Survivors ~Melody Wilde  
  
Part Five  
  
The scream sent a current of ice through his blood. It was a sound of terrible pain, and it went on and on, rising in volume and sliding into a wordless wail. And then it was suddenly cut off, as if a switch had been thrown.  
  
He had waited too long. It had been less than twenty minutes since the men had forced Sands back into the house-minutes he had used to watch the movements of the two guards who had remained outside and to plan his attack- but those minutes might have been too long for Sands.  
  
Cursing, he dropped from the tree and ran to the wall. The scream had distracted the guards. They had moved toward the entrance to the courtyard to investigate. This was his best chance to gain entrance.  
  
He caught the stone and pulled himself up easily. It took only a moment of careful balancing to cross the wire. He dropped to the ground and ran into the shadows.  
  
There was no further sound from the house, and that made a knot of anxiety form in his chest. He drew the gun with the silencer, moved forward carefully, and waited for the guards to return.  
  
It occurred to him that not twelve hours before he had planned to kill Sands-yet now here he was ready to kill two men in an attempt to save the man's life. He gave a half smile and shook his head at the ironies of life. Then he heard voices and footsteps returning. He lifted the gun.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"//Wake up!//"  
  
Someone had their hands on his shoulders, shaking him roughly. The movement made the shards of bone in his arm grate against each other, and he whimpered.  
  
"How did you like *that*, Sheldon?" Ajedrez had moved close again. "Still think I'm a 'sick fuck'?"  
  
He forced his head up. It took three tries before he could form words without releasing a sound of pain.  
  
"If this is the only way you can get off these days...I'm glad to be of..."  
  
Her fingers rested upon his forearm, lightly at first, then sliding up and down with increasing force, pressing the flesh and muscle inward until she could feel the edges of the breaks. She gave a sigh of pleasure.  
  
"And this is just the beginning."  
  
Oh Jesus god fuck fuck fuck.  
  
He had a sudden flash of memory. Sitting at a table in an open-air restaurant, smiling at Jorge Ramirez, speaking the words, "Two weeks, Jorge," in a tone of false sympathy, using the memory of his friend's torture to trick Ramirez into doing what he wanted. The words had a whole new meaning for him now. Two weeks of torture-and this was the daughter of the man who had ordered it.  
  
Sorry, Jorge. I had no idea.  
  
"What's wrong, baby? Cat got your tongue?" She walked her fingertips up his arm and over his lips. "Where's your smart mouth now?"  
  
He took a deep breath and gathered every ounce of energy he had left. "Still right here, sugarbutt." He forced a smile. "How did your honey like the show? Is he a sick fuck too? Did it make him hard?"  
  
She jerked her hand away from him as if she'd been burned.  
  
"Oh wait...I guess it wouldn't do any good for him to get hard, would it? I mean, with you not able to..." He tilted his head to one side suggestively. "You know. Obviously your mouth still works...but then you never were very good at using your mouth. Maybe that's why Ramon likes boys."  
  
Ramon bellowed in anger. A large hand grabbed his hair, dragging his head back, and a second hand closed around his throat. He choked as his air was abruptly cut off.  
  
Yes! Do it you stupid fucker!  
  
"Ramon, no!"  
  
The hand on his throat loosened. Oh shit, no, no, no, you were so close, don't stop now.  
  
"What's the matter, Ramon?" he hissed. "Pussy whipped?"  
  
Ramon could hit almost as hard as El. The force of the blow sent the chair crashing over sideways and slammed him against the floor. His arm shrieked in protest as a knee came down upon it.  
  
"//Let me beat him.//" Ramon's voice was close to his ear and thick with fury.  
  
"//You wouldn't know when to stop. Don't listen to him. Don't you see what he's trying to do?//" Her voice went from commanding to soft. "//Later. I'll let you have him for a little while later to do with as you wish.//"  
  
"//Promise me.//"  
  
"//I promise. Now pick him up.//"  
  
The chair was righted, none too gently, and his consciousness came back into focus. He didn't bother to raise his head this time. He just waited for whatever was coming next.  
  
"Do you know, Sheldon, that you are a hard man to find?"  
  
Oh great. She was going to talk some more. "Well, you know what they say. A hard man is good to find."  
  
"My men have been looking for you since the first day I was able to speak. I had no idea it would take so long to track you down."  
  
"Sorry. If I'd known you were looking..."  
  
"Do you know how they finally found you?"  
  
He decided not to waste the energy responding this time. She was going to tell him anyway.  
  
"Your friend, the mariachi led us to you."  
  
That brought his head up. "El?"  
  
"Oh not intentionally. We watched him for six weeks, hoping he'd go after you. But all he was interested in was building his stupid guitars." She made a sound of disgust. "So then-you're going to love this, Sheldon. It's just the sort of thing you would have done. We planned an attempt upon El Presidente. It was never meant to succeed-just to get the mariachi's attention. I knew he'd think you were behind it. I knew *he* would be able to find you. And he didn't disappoint me."  
  
"I'm sure he'd be thrilled to know that. I'll tell him if I ever see him again. Oh wait, I forgot. I can't see and you're going to kill me. I guess you'll have to tell him yourself."  
  
"There is no need. I heard."  
  
There was a sudden deathly silence in the room. Then one of the men whispered, "El Mariachi."  
  
"//You will put your weapons down now. Quickly.//"  
  
His brain seemed to shut down for a moment with shock. He heard the guns striking the floor, heard Ajedrez cursing in two languages, heard the sounds of her wheelchair being shoved away from him, but he was incapable of thinking...speaking...moving.  
  
"Sands?"  
  
The paralysis broke. "El? I'm not having some sort of hallucination, am I?" To his disgust, his voice was shaking.  
  
"No, my friend."  
  
"Well that 'friend' part makes me *think* I'm hallucinating, but if you say I'm not...." There were too many things he wanted to say-questions he wanted to ask-but this wasn't the time. "So what the hell are you doing here? Just passing by? Or are you the cavalry come riding in to save my ass?"  
  
"It would seem that I am the cavalry."  
  
"Then I've got to tell you...I'm so glad you're here that I won't even make any cracks about the Mexican cavalry and the Alamo, okay?"  
  
El made a sound which could've been a laugh. "How badly are you hurt?"  
  
As if he were going to give Ajedrez the satisfaction of hearing the truth. "I'm fine. A couple of Tylenol and a band-aid or two and I'll be good as new."  
  
There was another silence, in which he knew El was looking him over and trying to decide how far to believe him. Then El said brusquely, "//You. Cut him loose.//"  
  
"Woah! Oh golly, I hope you're not going to let Ramon near me with a knife." He gave a tight smile in El's direction. "He's been hot for me ever since I got here, and it looks like he's going to miss his chance to have his way with me. I don't want him taking out his sexual frustration on my private parts."  
  
Someone growled angrily. He hoped it was Ramon.  
  
"//Against the wall. Her too.//"  
  
He felt a hand on his right arm, then a movement, and the ropes loosened. When the hand moved to free his left arm, the pain sent him away.  
  
* * * * *  
  
He had not been surprised when Sands had abruptly tilted sideways. He caught the man with his free hand and leaned a shoulder against his hip, bracing Sands upright in the chair while he quickly reevaluated his plan.  
  
Sands looked terrible-too pale beneath his tan and the blood on his face, breathing through his mouth in light, quick gasps, his clothing ripped and stained, his arm... He had felt the movement of bones beneath his fingers when he cut the ropes. The arm was broken-and broken badly. Sands would not be able to help him tonight.  
  
He looked at the three men standing across the room, glaring at him, and sighed. From the moment he had entered the house, he had known this would be a necessity, but it pained him. He did not enjoy killing men in cold blood, not even evil men who deserved to die.  
  
He did not enjoy it, but that did not stop him from doing what he must. He raised his gun and began to fire.  
  
The shots and the woman's screams roused Sands. He jerked away, his face turning from side to side as if he were trying to see what was happening.  
  
"//You bastard! You killed him! Ramon...Ramon...//"  
  
Her anguish made him almost feel sorry for her. But then he looked down at Sands-at what had been done to him-and he thought of what else they might have done.  
  
"Am I hearing this right? You killed Ramon?"  
  
"Si."  
  
Sands sighed. "Gee whiz, I sure wish you hadn't done that."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I wanted that pleasure myself. Oh well." Sands gave a one- shouldered shrug. "What's done is done. Are they all dead?"  
  
"All but the woman."  
  
"Good. Give me a moment here..." He unbuttoned the torn shirt, then slowly and awkwardly lifted his left arm to slip it inside as a makeshift sling. Although he made no sound and gave no sign of pain, when he was finished there was a thin sheen of sweat on his face.  
  
"Tell me, El...what does my old girlfriend look like now?"  
  
He glanced from Sands to the drawn, huddled woman in the wheelchair. Even now, he could see that she had once been very beautiful.  
  
"She looks worse than you do."  
  
Sands actually managed to laugh at that.  
  
"Here." He retrieved the sunglasses from the floor and placed them in Sands' hand. "You may need these later."  
  
"Gracias." Sands raised them to his face and set them in place.  
  
"You bastards! You'll never get away with this!"  
  
Sands rose, gripping the chair arm with his good hand, then straightened. "Do you have an extra gun?"  
  
"Si."  
  
"Do you trust me with it?"  
  
He retrieved one of the guns from the floor, then leaned forward to place it Sands' hand.  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
"To your right. Be careful of the body on the floor beside her."  
  
Stepping carefully, Sands crossed the room toward the woman. When the toe of his boot struck the wheel of the chair, he stopped.  
  
"Left or right?"  
  
"Your right foot, her right wheel."  
  
Sands circled behind her, gun aimed. Her head turned to follow his movements, and she began to look frightened.  
  
"Are you going to kill her?"  
  
"I haven't decided. I mean, I'm sure I'm not the only person in the world who'd like to see her die. Slowly. Painfully. Did I mention slowly?" He stroked her cheek with the barrel of the gun. "Tell you what, sugarbutt. You answer some questions for us and I'll make it quick instead. How many men are here?"  
  
"Bastard!"  
  
"Wrong answer." With obvious pleasure, he leaned forward and brought the gun down on her nose. When she had stopped screaming, he said calmly, "Let's try it again now. How many men?"  
  
"Two outside. Two here. Ramon." Her voice broke on the name.  
  
"Where are the others?" "Gone. When my father died."  
  
"Is there money in the house?" He shook his head. "Stupid question. Of course there is. Where is it?"  
  
She was glaring murderously at him. "The desk in the study. There's a false bottom to the third drawer on the left."  
  
"El?"  
  
"I'll check." He had no qualms about leaving Sands alone with the woman. At this moment, she was in more danger than Sands. Perhaps he had been wrong in thinking Sands would not be able to help him in this condition. There was much more strength to the man than he had thought.  
  
The money was where she'd said it was, the bottom of the drawer jammed full of bills of large denominations. For a moment, he thought sadly of Fideo with his spoils on the Day of the Dead, walking away with money sticking out of every pocket of his clothing, going to drink. There was not as much money here, but there was enough.  
  
Sands was talking to the woman when he returned, speaking in a low, frightening tone. She was crying. Sands looked up at the sound of footsteps and smiled.  
  
"Are we rich?"  
  
"We are rich."  
  
"We need to cut the phone line. By 'we', of course, I mean 'you', since I can't see it."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"So she can't call for help."  
  
His eyebrows went up with surprise. "You're not going to kill her?"  
  
Sands smile chilled him. "No. I'm going to leave her here alive."  
  
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. The woman was not his enemy; it was not his decision. "I'll cut it on our way out."  
  
"Good." Sands leaned back, put his right hand on the back of the wheelchair, and, with an obvious effort, turned it over and tipped her out onto the floor beside Ramon's body. "Okay. I'm ready to go now, if you are."  
  
"I am ready." He lightly touched Sands elbow to guide him toward the door.  
  
At the door, Sands stopped abruptly. "Tell me, El, how does she look now?"  
  
She lay there, weeping, trembling, silent. "Terrified," he said flatly.  
  
"I wish I could see it." He raised his good arm and blew her a kiss. "Adios, sugarbutt."  
  
The second the door closed behind them, Sands' knees buckled and he tumbled forward in a dead faint. 


	6. Part 6

Disclaimer: These guys officially belong to Miss Becky now, but I don't think she minds if I borrow them as long as I return them in good condition. This is being written for fun; no copyright infringement intended.  
  
Summary: A couple of conversations.  
  
Survivors ~ Melody Wilde  
  
Part Six  
  
He was lying on his side in the backseat of a car which was going very fast. Too fast. The movement was jarring his arm, and the pain made his stomach want to revolt again.  
  
"El?"  
  
"Si." The voice came from somewhere in front of him.  
  
"I think it would be a good idea if you could pull over for a minute."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because if you don't, I'm going to puke all over your car."  
  
"It doesn't matter. It is Lorenzo's car."  
  
In spite of El's casual words, the vehicle began to slow, and he could feel it moving toward the right. He tried to think of something besides the pain and the nausea. Lorenzo's car. Who the fuck was Lorenzo? Then he remembered-one of the mariachi's team, probably one of the men who had been involved in the whole Day of the Dead fiasco, almost certainly one of the men who wouldn't mind if he were dead. Peachy.  
  
They weren't moving anymore. A car door slammed and another, above his head, opened. "Can you sit up?"  
  
He tried, biting into his lip with the effort, feeling as if he were going to pass out again any second.  
  
"Here. Let me help you." El leaned over him and slid a hand beneath his knees. "Carefully now." His legs were moved forward and straightened, and then the surprisingly gentle hands were beneath his right shoulder, lifting him upright. "All right?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Do you still need to vomit?"  
  
He nodded again.  
  
"Come, then. We are still far from town. No one will know but a few cows."  
  
That would've made him laugh if he could've. He felt the car shift as El moved backward and out. He managed to slide over and turn, then set a foot on the ground.  
  
"Gently, my friend. Try not to move your arm."  
  
"Gee, El, I hadn't thought of that."  
  
He shouldn't have opened his mouth. His body lurched forward as he began to retch. El caught him before he could fall, bracing him as the dry spasms shook him.  
  
"//Gently, gently. Do not harm yourself. All will be well.//"  
  
"Just...shut up...and...let me die."  
  
"//Not tonight, my friend.//"  
  
It was finally over. He managed a weak nod. "Okay. Done. Not that I had anything left after..."  
  
El made a shushing sound and eased him upright. "Can you stand?"  
  
"No." He didn't want to admit further weakness to this man, but he had no choice. Any strength he might have had left was long gone.  
  
"Then let me help."  
  
El lifted him as if he were a large doll and eased him into the front seat. He let himself drift away for a moment but was roused when he felt something warm being carefully wrapped around him.  
  
"What...?"  
  
"My jacket. You're shivering."  
  
Doors slammed and the car started again. "I'll drive more slowly. Are you all right?"  
  
Stupid question. He leaned against the passenger door and tried to brace himself. "Where are we?"  
  
"On the road between the Barillo Estate and Culiacan. I'm taking you to the hospital."  
  
"No!" The word was out before he could stop himself. A hospital would mean questions, paperwork, reports to authorities. The CIA would find him and haul him back to the States before the ink on the admitting papers was dry, and he wouldn't let that happen.  
  
Ajedrez had taken everything from him-his eyes, his work, the new home he had found. He refused to let her be responsible for taking the last thing he had-his freedom.  
  
El's silence was filling the car, so he tried to speak lightly. "I don't have insurance. You know there's not a hospital in the world that will take in somebody without an insurance card."  
  
"True, but they will take money. I have the money from the house."  
  
"That's not mine. That's your reward for coming to my rescue."  
  
"I do not want a reward." El's voice went soft and sad. "I do not deserve a reward. I heard what she said. It is my fault that this happened to you. I led her man to you. I watched as he went to call others. I watched as they hurt you and took you away. I could have stopped them, but I did not, because I did not understand. I did not realize who they were or what they meant to do to you, but that does not matter. She was right. I betrayed you."  
  
"You mean... You think *you're* responsible for this?"  
  
"It would not have happened without me."  
  
He began to laugh, despite the pain that the movement caused. "Come on, El. Think. She had you watched, right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And then she had you followed when you came after me. And that's how she found me."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"How did she know where to find *you*?"  
  
He could almost hear the brain cells clicking as El turned that one over. "I don't know," he said at last.  
  
"From me. *I* told her. Back...then, I told her everything, every last detail of every one of my fucking brilliant plans. You went home. She knew where your home was. So she set you up and she had you followed."  
  
"I don't understand. Why did you tell her so much? Why did you trust her?"  
  
The amusement died in his throat. "Because I was stupid. She made me think she..." He turned his face into the window and moved his left arm just a little to stir up some distracting physical pain. "I thought I'd found somebody who cared about me."  
  
"But you have?"  
  
"Have? Have what?"  
  
"Found someone who cares about you."  
  
"Who?" he asked sarcastically. "You? You're only here because you feel guilty."  
  
He heard El sigh. "The little boy in the yellow t-shirt. I saw him when we followed you from the restaurant. It was obvious that he cares for you."  
  
"Chiclet? He's being paid to care about me."  
  
"No, my friend. One cannot buy what was on his face when he looked at you. He cares."  
  
He didn't know how to respond to that. He didn't even know why he was talking like this to a man who had been almost his enemy. He swallowed hard to try to clear the sudden blockage in his throat.  
  
There were sounds of other vehicles now, and he knew they were coming into the city. "Don't take me to the hospital. Please?" He was disgusted to hear his voice break.  
  
El hesitated, then said quietly, "There is no choice. Your arm is too badly damaged. If you ever want to have the use of it again, you need more help than I can find elsewhere."  
  
"It doesn't matter."  
  
"I hope it will to you, someday."  
  
It was too much effort to argue, especially when he knew he'd lose. Besides, where else did he have to go now?  
  
"Why did you leave her alive? Because you loved her once?"  
  
Had he ever loved her? Really? Or had he secretly been so hungry for affection that he'd been playing the part as much as she had, just to feel loved by another human being?  
  
When he thought the word "love" now, the voices he heard were those of Mamacita and Chiclet.  
  
"Sands?"  
  
"I left her alive because it would've been kinder to kill her. I want her to lie there with her boyfriend's corpse and go crazy and then starve to death. I want her to die slowly and painfully. The way I'm going to die."  
  
"You are not going to die, my friend."  
  
"You don't know the CIA."  
  
"Listen-we are almost there. You are my brother-in-law. Your name is Robert Johnson. You were robbed and beaten. You cannot identify the men who did this because you are blind. Can you remember that?"  
  
"That I'm blind?"  
  
"Sands!"  
  
He turned his head and gave a half-smile. It might work. "Robert Johnson. Brother-in-law. And what should I call you?"  
  
"Juan."  
  
"Juan Doe. Right."  
  
The car slowed, then stopped, then he heard a flurry of Spanish and footsteps heading quickly toward them.  
  
"We're outside the Emergency Room. They're bringing a wheelchair to take you in."  
  
"No wheelchair. No fucking way." He fumbled for the door handle. "I'll walk in on my own."  
  
"Sands..."  
  
"Johnson."  
  
Someone opened the door, and he managed to push himself out. He smacked away the hands that reached for him. "I'm all right."  
  
El's voice was beside him, and he felt a hand beneath his right elbow. "Let me?"  
  
He nodded, hoping the mariachi knew that he was grateful for the offer. His legs didn't seem to be working so well after all.  
  
"This way."  
  
They moved forward, El speaking quickly in Spanish to someone, explaining about the robbery and his blindness and how he needed treatment immediately. The automatic doors opened with a whooshing sound, and they stepped inside.  
  
"Senor Sheldon!"  
  
"//Oh my beautiful boy!//"  
  
He froze, breath catching in his throat. His lips moved soundlessly. "Mamacita?" Then his knees buckled. He was only vaguely aware that El was easing him down into a chair. Then a soft hand touched his cheek.  
  
"//What did those monsters do to you?//"  
  
He couldn't help himself. He allowed his face to turn into her palm. "I thought you'd been killed."  
  
"It was only a scratch." This was a new voice, probably Lorenzo of the car. "I made her come here though, to make sure."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"//Look at your face-your clothes-your arm.//" He heard a rustle of clothing as she stood. "//You! Did you do this to him?//"  
  
There was fury in Mamacita's voice. It was a beautiful sound. He had the feeling that she was seconds away from attacking El, and the idea made him giggle stupidly.  
  
"Mamacita, it's okay...he didn't..." He struggled for the words. "//He didn't hurt me. He saved my life.//"  
  
"And I think you may have just saved mine, my friend." The smile in El's voice was the last thing he heard as the world danced completely away.  
  
* * *  
  
The woman Sands had called "Mamacita" was the one who caught him as he fell forward. She gently righted him, moved into the seat beside him, and settled his head against her shoulder.  
  
"//Can I help?//"  
  
She glared, and he realized she was still suspicious of him. Then her face softened as she turned toward Sands and touched her lips to the top of his head. When she looked back up, there were tears in her eyes.  
  
"//I have wanted to do that since the day he came to me, but he would not allow it,//" she said simply.  
  
He nodded, then stepped back as a pair of orderlies came rushing forward. Mamacita unwillingly surrendered Sands to them with a sharp command to be careful.  
  
"//Don't just stand there,//" she snapped at him. "//Go! Tell them what they need to know to help him.//"  
  
She followed him to the admitting nurse, listening and nodding as he told their prepared story, her eyes never leaving the men who were lifting Sands onto a gurney.  
  
"//I am going with him,//" she interrupted as they wheeled him toward the doors leading into the treatment area. "//You-//" She pointed to Lorenzo. "//Look after Miguel.//"  
  
The nurse looked alarmed. "//I'm sorry, no one but family is allowed-//"  
  
"//He is my son and he has been hurt. I will not leave him alone in this place.//"  
  
Before she could move, he stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. "//Mamacita, do you realize the danger he's in here?//"  
  
She looked at him as if he were the village idiot. "//I cared for him. I heard his screams and his rage against those who should have been his friends. I know the danger from his people.//"  
  
When they had vanished through the doors, he turned back to Lorenzo and the boy. They were waiting patiently, but as he came closer, the boy ran toward him.  
  
"//What happened to him? Will he be all right?//"  
  
He gestured for silence. "//I need to move the car. Come with me.//"  
  
The boy jumped into the back and hung over the seat as he started the vehicle and pulled to the side of the building, out of the way. When he had parked, he turned to them with a sigh.  
  
"//Now I will tell you what happened today.//"  
  
***  
  
"//Can you hear me, Mr. Johnson?//"  
  
He tried to move his head, but it was too heavy. He was lying in a very uncomfortable bed with a very thin mattress, and the air was thick with hospital smells.  
  
"//Mr. Johnson, my name is Dr. Mandojana. I'm an orthopedic surgeon. I'll be taking care of you.//"  
  
"Peachy." Or not.  
  
"//Do you speak Spanish? Can you understand what I'm saying to you?//"  
  
"Si."  
  
"//The x-rays show that you've suffered breaks and major displacement of both the bones of your lower left arm. There has been severe damage-we won't really know how severe until we can take a closer look. This means we can't just set the break and put you in a cast. This is going to require surgery. Do you understand?//"  
  
Doctor talk. He understood. They were going to knock him unconscious with their drugs and take off his glasses and stare at the holes in his face while they cut open his arm, and he was going to be totally helpless. Even more vulnerable than when Ajedrez had him tied to a chair.  
  
He wanted to whimper. He wanted to get off the table and run. He had to settle for a weak, "Fuck."  
  
"//Don't talk like that in front of the man who is helping you, Roberto.//"  
  
That brought him a little more awake. "Mamacita?//"  
  
He felt a hand on his shoulder. "//I'm here. I will not leave you alone.//"  
  
"Gracias," he whispered.  
  
"//Doctor, go prepare for what you must do and leave us alone for a few minutes.//"  
  
"//But he needs to be readied for surgery and-//"  
  
"//I said go.//"  
  
He heard hastily retreating footsteps and the sound of a door closing. It made him smile. "Nobody fucks with you, do they, Mamacita?"  
  
"//That word again.//" There was a gentle reproof in her voice. "//Let me tell you what has been done while you were asleep. They gave you something for the pain. They wanted to give you morphine, but I refused to allow it.//"  
  
"Good for you. Bueno." Her hand had begun to stroke his hair, lightly, lovingly. The touch made him feel as if he were coming unraveled. He took a deep breath, trying to regain control.  
  
"//They cleaned your other hurts and took x-rays of your arm. You have many cuts, but none require stitches. They will fix your arm and put it in a cast and keep you here until you wake. And then I will take you home.//"  
  
"I don't have a home."  
  
"//What?//"  
  
"//I don't have a home.//"  
  
"//Of course you do, my sweet baby.//"  
  
"//I'm not your baby.//" There was a pain in his chest that far worse than the one in his arm-the pain of wanting to turn to her but knowing he mustn't allow himself to do so.  
  
"//No.//" Her hand never faltered in its soothing movements. "//No, you are not a baby. It is only a term of love that a mother uses for her son, even when that son is a grown man.//"  
  
"Don't. Please...don't."  
  
"//What is it, Sheldon?//"  
  
"//Don't pretend to care. You don't have to. There's lots of money. You won't have to pretend anymore...//"  
  
"//Has no one ever loved you before?//" Her voice was unbearably sad. "//Can you not recognize love when you see it?//"  
  
"//I *can't* see.//"  
  
"//Then *feel*, my beautiful boy." Her lips brushed his forehead, then she bent to pull his head to her shoulder. When he tried to struggle away, she held him still. "//Don't. I am your mother now and I love you.//"  
  
"//Why?//" He felt as if he were falling, spinning endlessly, unable to stop himself. "//Why should you care about me? You don't even know me.//"  
  
"//I know enough. Listen to me now. My sweet Miguel, the boy you call 'Chiclet', is my grandson. My son was a strong, beautiful man like you. He and his wife were killed by the Barillo cartel, simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Miguel was all I had left in the world.//"  
  
"Mamacita..."  
  
"//No. Listen. When Miguel brought you home to me, you were hurt so badly that I was afraid. I wanted to send you away. Then I looked at you and I saw my son again, a good man hurt by others. As I cared for you, I came to know you, and my heart broke at your pain. Not the physical, but...//" She touched his chest lightly. "//All that lay here. I knew all I could do for that pain was give you love. It made me weep when you refused to accept that love, but I hoped with time you would learn. That you would come to return our love. That you would let me be your mamacita.//"  
  
"//I didn't...I thought...//" He couldn't breathe. "//I thought...when the money was gone...you'd throw me out...//"  
  
"//Oh my beautiful son of my heart.//" She gave a cluck of reproof. "//The money *is* gone. It all went for your doctor and medicines, weeks ago.//"  
  
"//But...then why did you let me stay?//"  
  
"//Because I love you, silly child.//"  
  
"Mamacita..." He felt something break in the center of his being. With a desperate moan, he reached for her with his good arm. His body began to shudder with tearless sobs. "Mamacita..."  
  
"//I'm here my boy. My son.//"  
  
She held him close to her as he cried, cuddling him as if he were a baby, rocking gently back and forth and murmuring soft words until the drugs and the release of emotion sent him into an exhausted sleep. 


	7. Part 7

Disclaimer: Written for fun, no copyright infringement intended, guys borrowed from Senor Rodriguez and Senorita Becky (but Mamacita is all mine!).  
  
Thank yous to my two Beta readers, Miss Becky and The Dread Pirate Nan, and to everybody who left me alone this weekend so I could write.  
  
Summary: Sands' life begins to change.  
  
Survivors ~ Melody Wilde  
  
Part Seven  
  
There were voices, far-away and indistinct. Fingers on his wrist, pressing against his pulse. The steady beep of a machine. He tried to wet his lips with his tongue, and a damp cloth was there as if by magic, moistening gently.  
  
"Mamacita?"  
  
No. That was all wrong. It was just that he was so unutterably tired. That's why he'd said such a stupid thing, sounding like a small child, afraid of the dark and calling for his mother. He knew better. He'd learned early in life not to call for the mother that never came.  
  
"//I'm here, my boy.//"  
  
The sound of her voice was so unexpected that he gave an involuntary whimper.  
  
"//Hush now, sweetling. Everything's all right. You're going to be fine. The operation is over. You're in the recovery room. They let me come sit with you until you woke.//"  
  
"//They...let you?//" He knew about hospitals, and he really didn't think hospitals in Mexico were that much different from any others when it came to policies about outsiders in their recovery rooms.  
  
She gave one of her soft laughs and patted his shoulder. "//After I spoke with them for a while, and explained your importance to me, yes.//"  
  
The moment of clarity became too much effort, so he went to sleep again.  
  
~o~o~o~  
  
"Roberto."  
  
He knew the voice, but not the name. He made an indistinct sound.  
  
"//You need to stay awake for a while. Your nurses want to meet you. They think I have a very handsome son.//"  
  
He struggled upward to consciousness, hearing them giggle shyly as they moved around him, adjusting the equipment and bedding. He forced his right arm upward and touched his face, feeling the layers of gauze wrapped around his head where his eyes had been.  
  
Someone moved his hand back to his side, and a different voice whispered, in a conspiratorial tone, "//I wrapped your face because you could not wear your glasses to surgery. I think you are *very* handsome.//"  
  
She was joking, of course, but it was kind of her to do so. "Gracias."  
  
"//You'll be taken to a room soon. I envy your new nurses. Rosa, come along now.//"  
  
He heard them leave with a muted patter of rubber on linoleum and considered going back to sleep, but he could feel someone leaning over him.  
  
"//Are you going to wake up now?//"  
  
"//Where...?//"  
  
"//You're still in the recovery room. Can you drink this?//"  
  
The end of a straw touched his lips. He drank enough to ease the dryness of his throat, then shook his head and the straw went away.  
  
"//How do you feel?//"  
  
He considered. His left arm felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds, but there was no pain. The bed was still uncomfortable and there were still too many of the hospital smells around him. He realized what he felt most was...loss. He'd had the most wonderful dream-his head pillowed on a soft shoulder, being cuddled and rocked and loved. It had been something totally foreign to his entire existence, but it had been wonderful. He wished he could go back to that dream again.  
  
"Roberto?"  
  
He couldn't tell her about that. It might make her angry. It was enough that she was with him for the moment.  
  
"//Peachy,//" he said, finally. "//My arm...?//"  
  
"//There was much damage, but Dr. Mandojana says you will have full use of your arm again in time, and with therapy, and with much love and care from your mother.//"  
  
He felt pain then, an old pain that the memory of the dream had resurrected. "//I don't have a mother,//" he said, too sharply.  
  
She was silent for so long that he thought she'd gone. "Mamacita?" he whispered.  
  
"//I was just thinking...//" Her voice caught. "//That when you are well, I am going to turn you across my knee and spank you for saying that. And then I realized that you are still just a silly child who knows no better and must be taught.//"  
  
He swallowed hard. "//What...what did you call me?//"  
  
"//A silly child.//"  
  
"//I...//" He forced the words out. "//I had a dream...and you called me that...and...//"  
  
"//And did I hold you like this?//" He heard her move, and her hand turned his face toward her shoulder. "//And then did I rock you and tell you I loved you, like this?//"  
  
He couldn't answer. Her slow and careful movements...the touch of her lips against his forehead... It was overwhelming.  
  
"//It was no dream, my son.//" She laughed, a good laugh, a loving laugh. "//Shall I do this every time you wake, to remind you?//"  
  
He wanted to say yes. He wanted to tell her how loveless his life had been, how all there had been was a need for power and control, how he had tried-to an extent that he now knew was foolish-to keep the world around him in balance, refusing to acknowledge that there had never been balance in his own life.  
  
"//I know the words are hard for you now, so I will take your silence as a yes.//" She stroked his hair.  
  
"//Don't tell them-Chiclet and the others. Please?//" The words were out before he could stop them.  
  
"//Someday you will not be afraid to accept love, Roberto. Or to show it.//"  
  
"//It's...//" How could he explain the lifelong fear of appearing weak? But somehow she seemed to understand.  
  
"//Don't worry, my son. The words which have been spoken here are between a mother and a son. They belong to us and to no one else. It is a sacred thing.//"  
  
He wanted to tell her that he loved her. He settled for tilting his face up to kiss her cheek and whispering, "Gracias."  
  
~o~o~o~  
  
He was moved to a regular hospital room soon after. The nurses settled him in and left. The doctor came to examine him and said he was doing well and repeated all the things he had already heard, only in more technical terms. Chiclet ran in to visit and gave him a careful, unexpected hug. El and Lorenzo came with the boy to pay their respects and were given orders about the care and feeding of their new charge. And after all that, he and Mamacita were alone again.  
  
"//Are you sleepy?//"  
  
"//A little.//"  
  
"//Sleep then.//" She kissed his forehead again. "//And tell me when you wake, so that I can reassure you that you have a mother now.//"  
  
~o~o~o~  
  
"//Your breakfast is here, Roberto.//"  
  
He was beginning to decide he liked that name better than he'd ever liked the ones he'd been given at birth. He pushed himself up awkwardly, working around the cast and the IV, and waited as Mamacita settled the tray over his lap.  
  
"//Are you going to let me feed you this morning?//"  
  
She had helped him with his meals the day before, when he'd still been groggy after surgery. It had brought back memories of when he'd first been brought to her, maimed and dying, and how tenderly she'd cared for him then. It had also reminded him how often he had refused to allow himself to luxuriate in her love and care, believing she'd been doing it only for the money.  
  
"Roberto?"  
  
"//Thank you, Mamacita, but I need to start doing things for myself again.//"  
  
She didn't argue, and he was grateful for that. She handed him the fork and explained the contents of the tray. He heard her pull the chair up closer to the bed as he attempted to fill a fork with scrambled eggs.  
  
"//Your friends think we should go away for a while.//"  
  
"//My friends?//" El and Lorenzo, of course. He'd heard them talking to Mamacita in the hallway the day before, but he'd been drowsy and hadn't even tried to eavesdrop. Agent Sheldon J. Sands passing up a chance to eavesdrop-that just went to show how far gone he would be if he didn't watch out. He lifted the fork and managed not to spill its contents.  
  
"//I don't know that I'd call them my friends.//"  
  
"//Don't talk with your mouth full, Roberto.//" He heard the smile in her voice. In spite of himself, he smiled back.  
  
"//Sorry.//"  
  
"//Perhaps in time you will be friends,//" she went on. "//They are handsome boys-not as handsome as you, of course. And they've been very good to Miguel and me. I am greatly in their debt. If Lorenzo had not insisted on bringing me to the hospital for this nothing, I would not have been here when you needed me.//" She reached over to pat his hand.  
  
"//I...//" It was another foreign concept. "//I am in their debt too. For taking care of you. And for saving my life.//"  
  
"//They have found a place for us on the other side of town, a house with room for all of us. Miguel has helped them gather our important things- clothing, the pictures of his parents, my Bible-to be moved.//"  
  
He knew the answer, but he asked anyway. "//Why?//"  
  
"//So you will be safe while you heal. When you are able, we will go back to the little village of the mariachis with them, where we will be surrounded by their friends and no one will find you.//"  
  
"And where we'll all live happily ever after."  
  
"//What?//"  
  
He pushed the plate away, his appetite gone. "//You have this all planned out.//"  
  
"//I did not think you would object,//" she said mildly.  
  
"//And what am I supposed to do there? Sit on my butt and let all of you take care of me for the rest of my life because I'm a cripple?//"  
  
//I had hoped you might want to become a mariachi.//"  
  
He turned his head toward the door at the sound of El's voice. "Ah, my savior and architect of my future."  
  
El ignored him. "//Mamacita, why don't you go have breakfast with Lorenzo and Miguel and let me visit with my friend for a time?//"  
  
He was sure that there were some major Looks passing between them. Then he heard the sound of Mamacita picking up her purse.  
  
"//I'll be back soon. Do not kill him while I'm gone.//"  
  
The door closed and footsteps crossed the room. The side of the bed sagged as El sat down.  
  
"Did she think you were going to kill me?"  
  
El laughed. "She was talking to *you*, Roberto." He felt the tray shift. "Are you finished? I'll move this."  
  
He gestured assent. The bed shifted, metal clinked against the floor, then the bed shifted again. He waited.  
  
"Tell me, what is the problem, my friend?"  
  
Somehow he felt foolish, so he retreated into the sarcasm that had always worked so well for him in the past. "Well, let's run down the list. I have no eyes. I have no job. My arm is broken. The CIA is almost undoubtedly after my ass. At least I don't have to worry about Ajedrez anymore, but..." He stopped. "I *don't*, do I? You *did* remember to cut the phone line?"  
  
"I cut it even before I picked you up off the porch and carried you to the car." Another shift as El leaned forward. "Why are you so angry all of a sudden?"  
  
"Because you're rearranging my life." It sounded petty, even to him.  
  
"Only to help you until you are able to take care of yourself."  
  
"Why?" he shot back.  
  
El was silent for a moment, then said, "I don't know."  
  
"Well golly, that's an honest answer."  
  
"Would you prefer that I lie and say it is because I like you? Because I'm still not sure I do. I very much did not like the man I met in the restaurant that day-the man who wanted only to use me to achieve his own goals. But perhaps..." His voice trailed away.  
  
"Oh do go on. I'm dying to hear what you have to say."  
  
"I think perhaps you are not that man now. I think perhaps you were reborn on the Day of the Dead."  
  
El's words came too close to thoughts that had been swirling in his head since he'd woken up the day before to Mamacita's kiss. He wasn't sure he liked that.  
  
"Now *there's* some imagery for you. I didn't know you had it in you to wax poetic, El."  
  
El laughed and lay a hand on his shoulder. "Of course I do. It is my job. I am a mariachi."  
  
Before he could stop himself, he laughed too.  
  
"You make things too difficult for yourself, my friend." El's voice softened. "You do not have to like us. You do not have to trust us. Just let us look after you until your arm is healed. If it will make it easier, pretend that I am doing this because of the guilt I feel for having led the men to you. When you are healed, then you can decide where to go and what to do with your life."  
  
"My job opportunities are somewhat limited now."  
  
"Do you know how to play the guitar?"  
  
"No."  
  
"When you no longer have to wear the cast, would you like to learn?"  
  
~o~o~o~  
  
He was lying in the sun again, just like he had been on the day three months before when Chiclet had come to tell him that his cell phone was beeping. He tilted his head back, raising his face to the warmth of the sun, and smiled. Just the same...only not.  
  
As the weeks had passed, he'd begun to find it easier and easier to slip into the atmosphere of almost-family in the house El had rented. Every day brought some commonplace experience that was new for him, some new adventure into the uncharted waters of caring and being cared for.  
  
There was Chiclet. The first time he'd called Chiclet by his real name, the boy had quietly said he liked it when Sands called him Chiclet and told him to fuck off, that he knew it meant Sands cared for him. He was absurdly pleased by that. Chiclet spent the afternoons with him, coming in after school to sit beside him, asking for help with his homework, sharing the day's activities and jokes, trying to learn to speak English. Chiclet had always liked him; it had just taken a long time for him to realize it.  
  
There was El, and sometimes Lorenzo. They shared stories and music and, upon occasion, when Mamacita was looking the other way, they brought him a bottle of tequila and a lime. When he was able, they had begun to take walks, short ones at first, then longer, to build back his strength. Slowly, he had begun to relax in their company and join in their laughter and even to learn some of their songs.  
  
And then there was Mamacita, caring for him when he wanted it, leaving him alone when he didn't, loving him, and scolding them all with a note of content in her voice that he suspected had not been there in a long time. They were all her sons now, but he knew with warm certainty that he and Chiclet were the favorites.  
  
The day the cast had been removed from his arm, Mamacita had announced that they were going to live with El in his village. He had gone with them without a word of protest. After that, once a week he and El and Lorenzo made the drive back to Culiacan for his therapy. Afterwards, they spent the night in a motel so they could go out to a bar for drinks and music. He always sat quietly at a table, sipping at a beer and smiling at the noise around him.  
  
Sands was amazed to realize that he was truly happy, possibly for the first time in his life.  
  
Someone leaned over him and tapped his shoulder. "//Hey, lazy, what are you doing out here by the pool?//" Lorenzo.  
  
"//Sunbathing.//"  
  
"//We're ready to go. Tonight we celebrate your release from the evils of physical therapy. Of course...//" His voice filled with mock sadness. "//This also means we will have no excuse to come to the city.//"  
  
"//Sorry. I didn't mean to be such a good patient.//"  
  
"//I forgive you. Now come. El is waiting with the car.//"  
  
Adjusting his sunglasses, he rose to follow Lorenzo.  
  
Author Note: Just for the record, I had originally intended that the story end with this part--that they *would* all go off and live happily ever after. Then Sands pointed out a couple of loose-ish ends, and several folks said you hoped I'd keep writing, and before I knew what I was doing, I had Part 8 and 9 in my head. Sands has begun to think maybe he was a bit too hasty with his comments, but it's too late. I'm going on. But I want you all to remember: Anything that happens to anybody from here on out is NOT my fault! 


	8. Part 8

Disclaimer: Written for fun (lots of fun) and the amusement of others, not for any sort of profit (although I will accept gifts of Butterfingers mini bars, since my supply seems to have vanished during the creation of this part). The guys aren't mine, unless owning a lot of Banderas and Depp DVDs counts.  
  
Thank you to my Alpha reader, Miss Becky (who let me know I had accomplished my goal with this part) and to the really frustrating project at work which finally made me say, "**** this, I think I'll go write for a while!"  
  
This part is rated R for language and sexual situations. Enjoy!  
  
Summary: The guys go out for a drink or two at a bar.  
  
Survivors ~ Melody Wilde  
  
Part 8  
  
El Mariachi carefully made his way from the counter to their table, balancing two mugs of beer in one hand and a platter of nachos in the other. The bar was crowded tonight, almost as if many others had come to join in their personal celebration. The music was raucous and the voices were loud and the liquor was flowing freely and the beautiful women were plentiful.  
  
He was not interested in the women, although he appreciated their fresh smiling young faces as one would appreciate a good song. After Carolina, there could never be another woman for him. Lorenzo, of course, had no such troubles. With his good looks and easy smile, he drew women to him like bees to honey. There were three of them with him at the bar, one on each side and one leaning against his chest, all staring at him with rapt adoration. He shook his head with a wry smile and set the glasses down on the table.  
  
"Took you long enough." Sands was rolling yet another cigarette, his hands shaping the paper in a quick, sure way that El found fascinating. "Get lost on the way?"  
  
"It's busy." He pushed one of the beers and the plate toward the other man.  
  
"So I hear." Sands lay the tobacco pouch aside and reached out, making a face as his fingers encountered the edge of the cheesy mess. "Why do you get these things?"  
  
"I thought you liked them."  
  
"I do, but golly gee, Juan, eating them in public like this is..." He shrugged. "Oh well. Let me know when I have too many refried beans on my shirt."  
  
"Of course." El took his first swallow of beer. "I'm going to miss our trips to town."  
  
"I sure as fuck won't." Sands wiped a dollop of sour cream off his lower lip. "That therapist the good doctor sent me to is a masochist."  
  
"Ah, but an effective one."  
  
Sands smiled at that and wriggled the fingers of his left hand before reaching for another bite. "True, but still..." He stuffed the loaded chip into his mouth in a manner more reminiscent of Chiclet than of the cold-eyed man El had met six months before.  
  
He leaned back in his chair and watched Sands, marveling at the changes time-and love-had made in the man. The former agent was more relaxed now. He had begun to accept their friendly hugs without becoming uneasy. He let Mamacita boss him around without even joking about shooting her. He had learned to smile-not the thin, tight-lipped smile of before, but a real smile-and he had learned how to laugh.  
  
When he smiled, and with the dark sunglasses hiding the horror that had been done to his eyes, he was a very attractive man, a man who should be enjoying himself on this night, not sitting and drinking only with friends.  
  
"Don't you want to dance with one of the young women?"  
  
"I don't dance."  
  
"Then have a drink with one. You would have no trouble enticing a sweet young senorita to come sit with you for a while."  
  
"And how would I do that, pray tell? Stand up and say, //here I am, girls, come and get me//?"  
  
"I could ask for you."  
  
Sands tilted his head, as if considering. "I think...no. Thanks anyway, though. Kind of you to offer to pimp for me-no, really, I do appreciate it- but I think I'll pass for now."  
  
"Why? You are young. You are handsome..."  
  
"Jesus, Juan, now you're starting to sound like Mamacita. Next thing I know you'll be making me take out the trash."  
  
"I just thought-"  
  
"Don't. If you're so interested in the ladies, why don't you go pick one up for yourself? Then you and Lorenzo can both stay out all night and I'll have the room and the TV remote all to myself."  
  
He knew Sands meant nothing by the words-they had come that far in their friendship-but they still made him sad. He leaned forward and stared down into the amber liquid.  
  
Sands leaned forward too, tentatively stretching out a hand and whispering, "El? I'm sorry."  
  
"No, my friend." He covered the hand with one of his own and gave a quick grip of reassurance. "There is no need to apologize."  
  
"I didn't mean... I forgot."  
  
"I know. And I also know that many men would not still mourn their woman after so long a time, but it does not seem long to me. It seems only yesterday."  
  
"I can't imagine caring about somebody that much." Sands' voice was bitter.  
  
"That's because you are only now learning how to love."  
  
"That's because the last woman I dated had my eyes drilled out."  
  
"The devil sometimes comes to us in a beautiful form."  
  
"If you're going to start quoting the Good Book..." Sands straightened and lay a hand on the arm of his chair.  
  
El laughed. "I do not believe that is a quote from the Bible."  
  
"Ah. It was a quote from the Book of Juan Doe, Chapter One, Verse One." He settled back and reached out carefully for his glass. "And you know, I hate to admit this, but you're right. She was a devil, but she was beautiful."  
  
"Not when I saw her."  
  
For a moment, Sands' lips moved into the tight, nasty smile that El had not seen in some time. Then they relaxed. "Mamacita would say I should do the Christian thing and forgive her."  
  
"Mamacita's way is not the mariachi way."  
  
That made Sands grin. "So now that I've been set free, are you going to start teaching me to play the guitar?"  
  
"If you are ready."  
  
"Oh golly gee, am I ready. I just can't wait to be able to play some of those great songs we've been singing at home all by myself."  
  
He didn't miss the words "at home" tucked in among the sarcasm, and for a moment his throat tightened. Sands had never told them in so many words, but El realized that this was the first home the man had ever known. He also realized that he had come to think of Sands almost as family-not so close as Lorenzo but certainly closer now than poor drunken Fideo.  
  
"Earth to Juan. Come in."  
  
"Sorry. What?"  
  
"I asked if we were going shopping tomorrow before we head back-to buy me an official mariachi suit."  
  
"I think that can be arranged. Black, of course."  
  
"Well actually, I thought maybe a nice powder blue. Maybe with sequins."  
  
El laughed again and drained his glass. "Would you like another? A tequila?"  
  
"Just beer. Thanks."  
  
He made his way through the tables back to the bar. Lorenzo-who now had four girls-gave him a wave as he approached.  
  
"//Someone is interested in our friend.//"  
  
El's hand moved involuntarily beneath his jacket to the gun hidden there. Then he realized Lorenzo was not talking about someone who would be a danger to Sands, and shook his head, feeling foolish.  
  
He gestured to the bartender to order, then asked, "//Who?//"  
  
Lorenzo nodded to a young woman sitting on a stool near them. "//She's been watching him for the past twenty minutes, looking like she wants to eat him up with a spoon.//"  
  
He studied her. Long dark hair, conservatively dressed, attractive. And Lorenzo was correct. She *was* looking at Sands with an expression of...  
  
He made a snap decision and motioned the bartender over. Nodding, he asked, "//Do you know her?//"  
  
"//Anita. She lives in the neighborhood. Comes in here every so often, just to have a drink or two.//"  
  
"//Is she...//" He wondered how to phrase his question, but the other man understood.  
  
"//She's okay. Not a whore or a thief. I knew her father.//"  
  
"//Ah. Thank you.//" Taking the mug of beer and putting down a generous tip, he moved over to her and smiled. "Senorita."  
  
"//Sorry. I'm not-//"  
  
"//Would you like to meet my friend over there?//"  
  
She looked up at him then and smiled. "//Yes. I would.//"  
  
He handed her the mug. "//His name is Roberto.//"  
  
She took it, then hesitated. "//I noticed how dark his glasses are. Is he...blind?//"  
  
"//Yes. Is that a problem?//"  
  
She gave him a dazzling smile. "//Oh no. I just do not want to say anything to offend him.//" She started away, then turned her head. "//Thank you.//"  
  
"//Any time.//"  
  
"//So, Juan,.//" Lorenzo giggled. "//Do you think our friend will get lucky tonight?//"  
  
He didn't even hesitate. "//I hope so. I hope so very much.//"  
  
* * *  
  
"//May I sit here?//"  
  
The soft voice, barely audible above the noise of the crowd, startled him. For a moment, he wasn't even sure the words were directed at him, but then the chair beside him moved, back, then forward. A mug touched the side of his hand as a knee touched his beneath the table.  
  
"//I'm sorry, but my friend-//"  
  
"//He said it would be all right. Your name is Roberto?//"  
  
He should've left when El started doing his pseudo-Bible quotes. "//Yes.//"  
  
"//I am Anita. I have lived in Culiacan all my life, but I do not think you are from here.//"  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"//Are you American?//"  
  
"//A long time ago.//" He reached for the beer and took a long swallow.  
  
"//I have always wanted to go to America. Is it very different there?//"  
  
He wrapped both hands around the glass and raised it to his lips again, to keep from answering. He really didn't know how to answer her...or how to talk to her. Small talk-at least the kind of small talk that didn't involve sarcasm or manipulation or killing somebody-was an art he'd never really mastered.  
  
"//Do you want me to go away?//"  
  
She sounded sad, but he was about to say yes anyway...until he felt her hand on his thigh.  
  
"//I...I don't...//" Christ, he was stammering like a virgin schoolkid on his first date.  
  
"//I would not want to go away...unless you go with me.//" Her fingers were sliding up and down, moving further up his leg with each upward stroke. "//Would you?//"  
  
His mouth felt dry. He gulped the rest of the beer down. "//Would I what?//" he asked stupidly.  
  
Her fingers moved the final inch. She leaned toward him, the heel of her hand pressing in just the fucking right spot on his crotch. "//Would you go home with me tonight and fuck me?//"  
  
He wondered if El and Lorenzo were standing at the bar watching all this and laughing their asses off. He wondered if El *had* decided to pimp for him and had paid the girl. He couldn't decide whether to flip them all off or take her up on her offer.  
  
Stupid made his mind up for him. He'd loved that shirt-the phrase "I'm with stupid" with an arrow pointing downward-because he'd believed he was smarter than all that. Men who thought with their dicks were stupid and got what they deserved. And he had been stupid about Ajedrez and had probably gotten what he deserved, and he was probably being stupid now but the fingers curling over the fabric of his pants were taking his breath away. He felt like he had a boner the size of Florida. It had been too damn long-too long since he'd gotten laid, too long since he'd *felt* like getting laid.  
  
"//Well?//"  
  
"//Where...//" He had to stop and clear his throat. "//Where do you live?//"  
  
"//Not far. Two blocks over, half a block down. We can be there in less than five minutes.//"  
  
He tried to reason with himself. Not a good idea, going off with somebody he didn't know. But if El had sent her over...but maybe El hadn't. Or maybe it was all a big joke and when he stood up with the bulge in the front of his pants they were all going to laugh and...  
  
He felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked in surprise. "//Sorry, my friend.//" El himself, come to see the results close up. His arousal faded, and he opened his mouth to say something nasty, but before he could speak, El went on, "//Lorenzo and I are going now. Do you want to go with us or meet us later at the motel?//"  
  
"//I'm...uh...//" It was the code phrase they used with Lorenzo when they came into town, a phrase asking "are you going to go off with this girl or two and fuck all night?" He'd never thought to hear it himself.  
  
El was waiting. "//I think I'll meet you later.//"  
  
"//Good.//" El straightened. "Senorita." Then he was gone.  
  
"//Shall we go also?//" she murmured.  
  
He nodded. She slid her hand through the crook of his arm as they rose, steering him through the crowd without seeming to, and he felt grateful to her for that. The door banged shut behind them and she turned to the right.  
  
The air outside was cool after the warmth of the bar. It became quieter as they walked down the street, away from the square. He thought he should say something to her, then realized he hadn't been paying attention when she'd told him her name. He really *had* been out of the game-all the games-too long. He couldn't do this.  
  
He stopped. "//I'm sorry. I... This is...//"  
  
"//Here.//"  
  
She pulled him gently to one side. "//Step up.//"  
  
They were in a doorway. His hand brushed against the wood of the door as she leaned into him, lifting her arms to circle his neck and draw his face down. Her lips were soft, shy at first, then parting, the tip of her tongue sliding forward to delicately taste him. His hands moved upward of their own accord to rest on her waist. She moved closer, putting his back against the doorway, pressing into him, breasts rising and falling against his chest, hands sliding downward. She made a low sound, and then her mouth opened over his, devouring him as her body moved against him.  
  
A part of his mind asked in a bored drawl, "Are you just going to stand there and let her rape you right on the street?" It sounded like a good idea at the moment. But then the lifelong need for control took over. He caught her hands, shifting away from the wall, turning them so that she was the one pinned and he was the one moving, his tongue thrusting, his knee rising between her legs.  
  
She managed to turn her head to the side. "//I would like to take you here and now,//" she whispered. "//I want to...//" One hand was kneading his buttocks. "//My house is just around the corner. Please. Please hurry.//"  
  
He felt as if he couldn't hurry if his life depended on it-he wasn't even sure he could walk upright-but he decided to give it the old college try. "//Okay.//"  
  
Her house wasn't just around the corner, but every time he opened his mouth to question her, he felt her hand upon him, grasping, promising delights to come. He decided he definitely *was* "with stupid".  
  
"//Here.//"  
  
Two steps, the sound of a key in a lock, a door opening. Then they were inside. "//Let me lock the door...//"  
  
Sounds, then her hand on his arm again. "//This way.//"  
  
He couldn't even think clearly enough to count the steps they were taking. Not that it would have helped, the way his feet were stumbling. Another door opened, and then her hands and mouth were on him again, guiding him forward, turning him. He felt the edge of the bed behind his knee and went down, pulling her on top of him. She moaned deep in her throat.  
  
"//Ah, Roberto.//"  
  
She had moved to straddle him, grinding her pelvis against him. She lifted her upper body away, straightening, catching his hands in hers, pulling them to her breasts and holding them there.  
  
"//I'm so sorry.//"  
  
Noise, a flurry of movement, then the cold steel of handcuffs circling his wrists. He flung his arms upward, smacking into her chin and knocking her away, and tried to struggle to his feet, but hands were pressing down on his shoulders. Then another weight fell across his legs, holding him immobile.  
  
"//You goddamn fucking whore,//" he hissed.  
  
A hand slashed across his face. "Don't talk to her like that."  
  
He froze. English. Oh shit fuck Jesus Mary and Joseph.  
  
"Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, you are under arrest for murder. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."  
  
He didn't hear the rest. The words were drowned by an internal choir singing, "You're fucked, you're fucked, you are *sooooo* fucked.."  
  
TBC. 


	9. Part 9

Disclaimer: Written for fun (sometimes fun, sometimes not) and the amusement of others, not for any sort of profit. El and Sands aren't mine; if they were, I'd be too busy to bother with fanfiction!  
  
Thanks to Miss Becky for beta-ing both versions of this, for excellent suggestions, and for encouraging me to keep going when all I really want to do right now is throttle Sands.  
  
Summary: Sands meets his captors.  
  
Survivors ~ Melody Wilde  
  
Part 9  
  
"Do you understand what I've said to you?"  
  
He had the feeling the question had been asked a couple of times already, while he'd been busy mentally kicking himself across Mexico and back. One of his captors-the one leaning on his left shoulder-was obviously getting impatient; he was bearing down harder.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. I can dig it."  
  
"Good. //Let him up.//"  
  
The Hands released him and The Weight stood up. For a second, he thought about throwing himself off the bed and making a try for the door, but he knew that would be another stupid move. There were at least three of them in the room and maybe more outside. He had no gun and no real idea where he was. All he'd get out of an escape attempt now would be bruises, at the very least.  
  
He put his elbow against the mattress and awkwardly pushed himself to a sitting position. "Do I get to ask who you are? If you're flashing your badges at me, it's a wasted effort."  
  
"Yeah, we know. Sorry 'bout your eyes, Jeff, but I'm not surprised. I figured something like that would happen to you eventually."  
  
He knew that voice, and its owner obviously knew him. Not a friend; he'd never had any friends until now. CIA, almost undoubtedly. Somebody sneaky and cowardly enough to use a woman to lure him into a trap instead of just walking up and arresting him when he was with El and Lorenzo.  
  
"Hey, Mike. Long time no see. And I have to tell you-it's been great. I haven't missed you a bit."  
  
Left Shoulder Hand snickered.  
  
"You're in some deep shit here, compadre. What the fuck did you think you were doing, messing around with the government like that? Killing innocent citizens? Did you think we wouldn't find out? Did you think we'd just let it go?"  
  
He shook his head. What *had* he been thinking back then?  
  
"Well?" There was a sharp note in the question.  
  
What he'd been thinking was that he was going to steal a whole shitpot full of money and run away with Ajedrez to South America and live happily ever after. Funny how things worked out sometimes.  
  
He shouldn't have laughed. The Weight smacked him on the shoulder, not really hurting him, but knocking him backwards. He considered sitting up again, then decided not to bother.  
  
"So what's it going to be? Drugs? Torture? A bullet in the head?"  
  
"//I think we should torture him. He deserves it.//" That was The Weight again.  
  
"A Mexi-can? Are we practicing some major interagency cooperation here? If so, I have to tell you, the AFN folks that I've worked with have left me with some serious trust issues."  
  
The Weight jerked him upright and threw him off the bed. He hit the floor and immediately curled into a ball, trying to protect himself from the kick he knew was coming.  
  
"//Don't!//"  
  
No kick. That was good. If they were listening to Mike, it meant he was in charge of the operation. Mike was a prick, but he wasn't a sadistic prick.  
  
"Okay, I guess that answers the question. AFN. Actually, that would've been my second guess. My first would've been a bunch of rent-a-goons you hired someplace, but-"  
  
"Would you shut the fuck up?"  
  
Mike-he knew it was Mike because the man was wearing the same cheap cologne he'd used back at the academy-slid hands under his arms and helped him up. He decided he might as well sit down on the bed again and be as comfortable as possible while he found out what was going on.  
  
There was a long moment of silence. He waited, then tilted his head from side to side.  
  
"Did you mean for everybody to shut up or just me?"  
  
"Look..."  
  
"Sorry. Can't. No eyes."  
  
He could almost hear Mike flinch. Left Shoulder Hand snickered again.  
  
"//Wait outside the door. Let me talk to Agent Sands alone for a minute.//"  
  
"//But what if he tries to get away? Let me stay with you.//"  
  
Oh yes, this one probably kept thumbscrews in his wallet right next to the condoms. Sands was beginning to develop an intense dislike for Mr. Weight.  
  
"//He won't go anywhere. Go on-get out!//"  
  
He allowed himself a lazy smile as he heard the footsteps leaving the room. "I do have to admire that ring of authority in your voice, Agent Thomas. Good job."  
  
"Look...oh shit." The bed sagged as the other man sat down beside him. "You're in deep trouble here."  
  
"Yes, you mentioned that already."  
  
"Those guys want your balls for breakfast for what you did. The only reason they agreed to let me be in charge of the arrest is because you were one of us. They want it done right."  
  
"A proper military execution instead of letting them take me out in the back and shoot me."  
  
"Goddamn it, Jeff, be serious!"  
  
"I am," he said flatly.  
  
"You have no idea how close to out of control those guys are. They lost a friend-"  
  
"And I lost my eyes," he interrupted. "Whatever I did to them, I think I've paid for it."  
  
"We're talking murder here."  
  
Yeah, he couldn't deny that one. The images began to parade through his memory-the cook who had been too good at his job, Belini, the nameless waitress who had died for a simple spill of coffee. None of them had deserved to die. Well, maybe Belini had, but not the others. He wasn't going to count the men he'd killed on the Day of the Dead. Or Ajedrez, because technically he hadn't killed her. Either time.  
  
It seemed like a thousand years ago, not just six months. Almost like a life that had happened to somebody else. But it had been his life, and he was responsible for those deaths, and it was time to pay. He could only hope that Mamacita and Chiclet never heard about any of this-never found out what an asshole he'd been before they came along to save his life in every way.  
  
"What are they going to do to me?"  
  
"The CIA will probably want to send you back to the States. I figure AFN will argue that you have to stand trial here because the people you killed were Mexican citizens. If we win, you'll spend the rest of your life in prison. If they win..." Sands could almost hear the other man shrug. "You'll probably wish we *had* taken you out back and put a bullet in your head."  
  
"Peachy. And now?"  
  
"Now we're all going for a ride back to the motel where we set up our local base of operations. Tomorrow morning, we'll head to Mexico City and turn you over to the higher ups and let them argue it out."  
  
"You could at least have waited long enough to let me fuck the girl before you put the cuffs on."  
  
"Sorry. She only agreed to help on the condition that she didn't have to give up her precious virginity." The agent's voice took on a smug tone. "Brilliant, wasn't it? I picked her because the bartender where you go to drink every week is a friend of her family. I knew your sullen bodyguard would ask about her before he let you go off with her, so I made sure he got the right answer. And I only had to pay one person-her."  
  
"You're a fucking genius, Mike. As always."  
  
"You're not still mad about that thing on the rifle range? That was years ago."  
  
He gave a quick, thin, half smile. "Of course not. No more than you are about your car."  
  
"My car?" He made a sputtering noise. "*You* did that?"  
  
"Like you said, it was years ago."  
  
Agent Thomas rose abruptly. When he spoke again, his voice was hard, all traces of his pseudo-friendliness gone. "You know what? I'm really going to enjoy marching you into headquarters and handing you over to Freeman. I can't wait to see the look on his face when he realizes what I've done all on my own, without any help from those self-righteous fuckers. They all think you were killed during the coup. They're going to be so happy to see you that I might finally get that promotion I've been asking for."  
  
"Oh golly, I hope the CIA's smarter than that."  
  
"Fuck you. See if you think it's funny this time tomorrow." He stomped toward the door. "We've done enough talking. Fredo!"  
  
"Si."  
  
Oh super. Mr. Weight. "Hey, Fredo."  
  
"//Tell Javier to bring the car around, then come back in.//"  
  
Javier must be Left Shoulder Hand. Too bad he wasn't going to help-at least he'd had a sense of humor.  
  
"Okay, Jeff, we can do this the easy way or the hard way or the harder way. Your choice."  
  
"Oh wow, I get a choice? Is there a pony behind one of the curtains?"  
  
"You can walk out of here quietly with us. I can use the drugs in the syringe I have in my pocket and knock you out for the next week. Or I can turn Fredo loose on you for a few minutes. The end result will be the same whichever you choose. Personally..." He drew a deep, angry breath. "Personally, right now I'm leaning toward number three."  
  
He really tried not to laugh, but the absurdity of it was overwhelming, and god knew he needed a good laugh about now. "Are you pissed about the *car*? You're taking me in for *murder*, but you're pissed about a fucking piece of shit car?"  
  
"Do you know how long I saved to buy that car?"  
  
"Yeah, pedaling your little bicycle all over Washington delivering all those papers-"  
  
He hadn't really believed Thomas would hit him. Not over something that had happened fifteen years before. And certainly not that hard.  
  
"//What happened?//"  
  
Fredo was back, and he sounded very much as if he wanted to jump in and help with whatever the problem was.  
  
"//He tried to grab my gun.//"  
  
"Gosh, Mike, you sure can hold a grudge." The sunglasses had been knocked half-off by the blow. He ducked his head and raised his hands to settle them back into place.  
  
A big hand grabbed his chin, pulling his face back up. "//I want to see what they did to him.//"  
  
"//Sure. Go ahead. I'm sure Jeff won't mind.//"  
  
The fingers moved, settling below his jaw, around his throat, holding his head still. The sunglasses were removed and he heard them hit the floor. There was another silence, the only sound that of Fredo's heavy breathing; it sounded as if he were excited. Fucker.  
  
"//Well? Like what you see?//"  
  
"Jesus, what a mess," Thomas muttered.  
  
A fingertip circled the hollow where his left eye had been. "//I wish I had been there to watch them do this to you.//"  
  
"I'll just bet you do." He jerked away. "//Give me my fucking glasses, asshole.//"  
  
"//You are going to be sorry-//"  
  
"//Fredo! Do it. We don't want to frighten Anita if she sees him when we leave.//"  
  
The glasses were shoved into his hands. He leaned forward and slid them on. "Gracias, fuckmook."  
  
"//Let me hit him. Just once.//"  
  
"What is this guy's problem? I didn't trash *his* car."  
  
"One of the men you killed was his partner-and his best friend."  
  
"I didn't know Belini *had* any friends."  
  
"Belini? Who's Belini?"  
  
He went cold, as if the temperature in the room had just dropped about thirty degrees. Oh shit. His mind had been in his dick when this had all started. The very first fucking thing that should've come out of his mouth, and he hadn't thought to ask it.  
  
"Tell me something, Agent Thomas. Who is it that I'm being accused of killing?"  
  
"Don't start trying to pull that insanity crap on me, Jeff."  
  
"No, really. Humor me. Remind me who I killed."  
  
Thomas spoke slowly and patiently. "Three months ago, you gunned down AFN Agent Ramon Sanchez and four of his friends. Five counts of murder. Add to that what you did to your wife-that one's attempted murder."  
  
"My wife." It was getting worse by the second.  
  
"She's the one who called us. Thank god she had a cell phone and was able to get to it, or she'd be dead too and you'd have gotten away with everything."  
  
A cell phone. A fucking cell phone. Why hadn't he thought of that. This was really bad. This was really really bad.  
  
"My wife. You mean...Ajedrez?"  
  
"See?" Thomas said nastily, emphasizing the word. "I knew you could remember." He wrapped a hand around Sands' upper arm and began to tug. "It's time. Which way do you want to go out of here, walking or being dragged?"  
  
"Wait." He balked, pulling away. "There's something wrong here. For one thing, Ajedrez isn't my wife. She's the bitch that-"  
  
This time Thomas didn't try to stop Fredo. Suddenly he was on the floor, a knee with a thousand or so pounds behind it jammed into his stomach, making it impossible to breathe, a fist thudding into his face, then the side of his head, then his throat.  
  
"//The car's-holy shit. What are you doing? Not now!//"  
  
Javier. The sound of his voice distracted Fredo for a moment, and Thomas decided to take control again.  
  
"//That's enough. Let him up.//"  
  
The big man moved off him, then jerked him to his feet. He swayed, trying to suck in air, trying to think.  
  
"Mike, listen..."  
  
"No, *you* listen. Either you walk out of here peacefully and get in the car, or when we get back to the motel I'm going to let Fredo finish what he started. You got that?"  
  
Not much choice. He took a deep breath, then nodded.  
  
Sweet little Virgin Anita was waiting by the door. He heard Thomas speak to her in a low voice, thanking her and handing over her payoff. As he passed, he recovered enough to gave her a nasty smile.  
  
"It was fun while it lasted, puta."  
  
Thomas hustled him off the porch, letting him stumble on the step. He heard a car door open in front of him, and a hand on his back shoved him forward, making him crash against the sharp metal edge.  
  
"Get in."  
  
"Mike..."  
  
"I said get in."  
  
He reached out to find the door frame just as a familiar voice floated out of the back seat.  
  
"Hello again, sugarbutt."  
  
"What's *she* doing here?"  
  
He realized he had spoken the words in unison with Thomas. Oh fuck.  
  
"There's been a little change of plans, Agent Thomas," Ajedrez explained, giggling. "You're not in charge anymore. I am."  
  
"I don't understand." He sounded genuinely confused.  
  
"Oh Christ, Mike, you never understood anything." But *he* understood. Everything. "Your buddies here aren't AFN."  
  
"Right in one." She giggled again.  
  
"What the hell's going on, Jeff?"  
  
"Get with the program," he snapped. "You've been used to get to me."  
  
"Why, Sheldon, you're getting clever in your old age," she purred. "Too bad neither of you saw *this* coming."  
  
"//CIA has drugs in his pocket.//" His good friend Fredo, of course, no doubt dying to try them out on him.  
  
"//Get them. Then kill him.//"  
  
There was one slim chance. If Mike could get away, maybe...  
  
"Hey, Mike," he drawled as he heard Fredo turn. "Remember what Professor Dunning always used to say?"  
  
"Who?" Thomas sounded shell-shocked. Not that he would've remembered anyway; he never had been much of a student.  
  
"When in doubt..." He spun, slamming his cuffed hands into the nearest body, then lunging toward the sound of Thomas' voice. He collided with a large, solid form, and they both went down. "Run!"  
  
Fredo rolled on top of him, making a sound that was half fury and half delight. He tried to struggle...heard gunfire...and then his head was slammed into the pavement and he lost consciousness. 


	10. Part 10

Disclaimer: These guys do not belong to me (except "Mike" and I don't really want *him*). This is written for fun, not profit or copyright infringement. Flowers and chocolate and a roll of duct tape to the incredible Miss Becky for beta reading and offering some most excellent suggestions.  
  
Survivors ~Melody Wilde  
  
Part 10  
  
Voices. One female, two male. Arguing. He heard his name and decided it was time to wake up a little and pay attention.  
  
He had been thrown into the back seat of the car and was lying sprawled sideways, his head against someone's leg-probably Ajedrez. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, but it was long enough for his body to be protesting at the awkward position.  
  
"//We can't go back there. It's the first place anybody would look.//" Ajedrez.  
  
"//And who's going to be looking for him? Thomas?//" Fredo snorted. "//The look on his face...he was about to piss himself.//"  
  
"//Do you think you hit him?//" That was Javier, in the driver's seat.  
  
"//I don't know. Maybe. It doesn't matter. He won't stop running until he gets to the U.S. border. And do you think he's going to talk-tell anybody what he did?//"  
  
"//Please, Fredo. I don't want to go there.//"  
  
It was nice to hear her not in control. His lips twitched slightly.  
  
"//I'm telling you it's safe. Even if Thomas did talk to somebody, he wouldn't mention the house. He knows it's sold-he just doesn't know the new owners won't be there for another month. It's the best place. Anyway, where else would we go?//"  
  
To hell. That would be good.  
  
"//You're probably right, but...//" Her voice faltered. She sounded weaker than she had earlier. "//I don't want anything to go wrong this time.//"  
  
"//Nothing will. We'll all spend a little quality time there tonight.//" Fredo gave a nasty chuckle. "//Then first thing in the morning I'll take care of the other one, just like we planned.//"  
  
The other one? Who else were they pissed at? That gave this thing a whole new non-deja vu spin. Not necessarily a good one.  
  
"//So, Sands, are you almost ready to wake up and play?//" Fredo had turned in the seat, reaching an arm back to jerk at his cuffed hands. He gave a low moan and then made himself go limp again.  
  
"//Fredo, do you think...//" Javier again, his voice quieter, hesitant. "//Could I...perhaps...have some time alone with him tonight?//"  
  
"//You want to fuck him, don't you? You filthy pervert!//"  
  
Sands couldn't help himself. The disgust and righteous anger in Fredo's voice made him give an involuntary snort of laughter.  
  
"//Good. You're awake.//"  
  
No use pretending anymore. He struggled upward, still grinning. "Oh golly, this evening has certainly been a triumph for the scales of balance. Mike was more upset about his car than about murder. Now *you're* calling *Javier* a pervert. I can't wait to see what's next."  
  
He heard an aborted movement from the front seat, then Fredo muttered, "//We'll be there soon enough, now that we can quit driving around in circles.//"  
  
Okay, maybe he *could* wait after all. He leaned against the door and turned his head toward Ajedrez.  
  
"It was stupid of me not to realize that you might have a cell phone."  
  
"Yes, it was."  
  
"So are we going to do this whole torture thing all over again? Back to the ranch, strap me to a chair, try to talk me to death, bring out the whips and chains, and so forth?"  
  
"No. Not quite the same."  
  
"Good. I hate reruns."  
  
"We don't have as much time now. We'll have to be quicker."  
  
"Quick and dirty. Just the way you used to fuck."  
  
He felt her hand on his cheek and braced for a slap, but instead her fingers crept up to pull off his sunglasses. "You never used to complain. I bet you still wouldn't. You know, you'd be lucky to get the cheapest whore in Mexico to fuck you now, Sheldon." She laughed softly. "My father did a good job on you."  
  
He didn't want to be reminded of that day, or to think of what was coming, so he decided to change the subject. "Why Mike?"  
  
"Because I hate you."  
  
He shook his head impatiently. "I know that. Why did you use *him*? Why all the subterfuge? Why didn't you and all your guys just come and grab me?"  
  
"Because there are no 'guys'. Fredo and Javier are all I have left." Her voice had turned ugly. "You killed everybody else."  
  
"Hey, babe-not me. It was..." And then he put the pieces together. El. That's who Fredo was going to take care of in the morning, after doing whatever it was that he planned to do to Sands. Knowing Fredo, it would be an execution-a shot from a rooftop or from an alley. And if he missed the first time, he could try again. They knew where to find El-the motel, the bar, home...  
  
"Oh my Christ."  
  
"You're learning, sugarbutt," she purred. "Know what? After he kills your friend, I'm going to let him go kill the woman and the boy too, just because I know it'll hurt you."  
  
"Don't." The word came out of him before he could think.  
  
"Don't? You mean you really *do* care? That you'd beg for their lives?"  
  
Only an idiot would give her the pleasure of begging, especially since he knew in advance that it wouldn't do any good. Only a stupid desperate fuckmook.  
  
"Yes. I'll beg. I'll do anything. Just don't hurt them. Please?"  
  
She gave a trill of delight. "Yes, Sheldon, you *will* 'do anything'. And so will we."  
  
The car turned left and he heard the crunch of gravel beneath the tires. He ground his teeth together to hold in a scream of rage and frustration.  
  
"Almost there," Ajedrez murmured. Her hand slid away, taking the glasses.  
  
He had to do something. Anything. He couldn't let them kill his friends. He had to get away somehow. Warn El. He shifted, moving his hands to the side, hoping Ajedrez wasn't watching as he searched for the door handle.  
  
The car rolled to a stop. He jerked the handle up, then flung himself out. He was running even before he heard the sound of another door opening, going right so that he'd be heading down the side of the car and back the way they'd come. They'd gone straight after the turn. If he kept going straight, if he could outrun them, he could get to the road. He was in shape again. El had made sure of that.  
  
Running footsteps behind him, two sets, one pounding, one lighter. But they weren't close. He could make it. He knew it must be dark so far from the city. If there was no moon...the dark didn't matter to him, but to them...  
  
The heavier footsteps stopped. He realized what was happening and veered sharply to one side, then the other, even before he heard the first shot. Shit. Fucking hell. How much farther... His right leg buckled under him and he went down, rolling. There was no pain. The leg just refused to hold him when he tried to push himself back to his feet. He reached down frantically, trying to find out if he'd been hit.  
  
Blood. And then the pain started, streaking upward through his body. And then he felt hands on his arms, dragging him roughly to his feet. He braced for a retaliatory blow.  
  
"//Get him inside and stop the bleeding.//"  
  
"Why thank you, Fredo. Gee, you're-"  
  
"//She doesn't want you to die yet.//" He was transferred to another set of hands. "//Take him. I'll help the senorita//"  
  
Javier didn't have Fredo's bulk, but he easily manhandled Sands back down the driveway and up the steps, hauling him up when he stumbled and shoving him forward when he faltered. He wondered why they were moving so quickly, then realized he must be bleeding more badly than he'd thought.  
  
"//Inside.//"  
  
Javier sounded short of breath. He guided Sands through the doorway and forward. "//Across here. Down the hall.//"  
  
"Sorry, but you'll have to do the driving. I can't see where I'm going. No eyes." He tried to turn his head to let the other man see the empty sockets, but Javier pushed him onward. His shoulder slammed into the next doorframe. "And you're a *lousy* driver," he muttered.  
  
"//Here.//"  
  
A door closed behind them. His knees bumped into something and then he went down, face first, onto a bed. "What..." And then he knew.  
  
"//You will be silent.//" He felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against his neck, felt Javier's body settling onto the bed to cover his.  
  
"//Your boss and her little friend are going to be pissed if you kill me.//"  
  
"//I don't have to kill you. I can knock you unconscious instead. But I would prefer to have you awake.//"  
  
"//Fredo isn't going to like this either, you know.//"  
  
"//Fredo has his sicknesses and I have mine. Now be quiet.//"  
  
"Oh fuck," he muttered as a hand moved roughly down his side.  
  
"Si," Javier whispered.  
  
* * *  
  
As usual, Lorenzo came sauntering in fifteen minutes before check-out time, looking as fresh as if he'd spent the night in sound sleep instead of entertaining the pair of young women he'd taken away from the bar.  
  
"//Good morning.//" He picked up his bag and began to toss his things in. He lifted his eyebrows in question. "//How was the night?//"  
  
"//He's not back yet.//"  
  
"//It went well then.//" Lorenzo grinned.  
  
"//He's not back,//" El repeated, glowering.  
  
Lorenzo's good humor faded. He glanced around the room as if to verify that El hadn't just overlooked their friend, then shrugged.  
  
"//So? Give him a break. It's probably been a while for him. Let him enjoy himself without worrying over him like his chaperone.//"  
  
"//What if something happened to him?//"  
  
"//He's a big boy, you know.//"  
  
"//And he's blind.//"  
  
"//Even blind men need to...//" Lorenzo made a rude gesture.  
  
"//Do you want to be the one to go back to Mamacita and tell her that we lost her boy?//"  
  
All traces of the smile faded from Lorenzo's face at that. "//Do you want to start with the bartender?//"  
  
El rose, slipping his gun inside his jacket. "//You stay here. Pay them for another night, just in case. I'll go to the bar and find out where the woman lives.//"  
  
"//You realize he's going to be really pissed if you burst in and interrupt them.//"  
  
El shook his head. He had begun to have a bad feeling about this when he had woken to find that Sands had not returned. "//I'm willing to take the chance.//"  
  
* * *  
  
He hadn't expected the bar to be open this early, but the door was ajar, even though the sign still read "Closed." He pushed it open and stepped cautiously into the room. It was quieter than the night before, and cleaner. A man in a white apron stood behind the counter, arranging the liquor bottles for the day's trade. A man in a rumpled dark suit sat at one of the tables, a line of beer mugs before him.  
  
"//We're closed,//" Apron said.  
  
El gestured. "//What about him? You're serving him.//"  
  
"//I can't fucking get *rid* of him. Not without calling the police. And he *is* police, so what good would that do?//"  
  
The man at the table looked up, squinting at El, then muttered blearily, "You."  
  
An American. Late 30's, beginning to go to fat, blond hair cut short and obviously combed conservatively before his drinking binge. El moved to drop into a chair across from the man. "Yes. Me."  
  
"The bodyguard. Look, I didn't mean to... It was a mistake. I...oh Jesus God I fucked up." He folded his arms on the table and dropped his head onto them. "They're going to have my badge for this, if they don't send me to prison."  
  
"You are CIA?"  
  
His head moved once.  
  
"What is your name?"  
  
"Mike Thomas. I was...oh shit."  
  
El gestured toward the bartender. "Coffee."  
  
"I told you..."  
  
El gave him a Look, and the man hurried to put on a pot. He turned back to Thomas. "What is it that you have done, Senor Thomas?"  
  
"You have to understand." He lifted bleary eyes to stare at El. "It's just...it was my big chance. He always got everything-the grades, the girls, the assignments-and I never... I didn't mean to. I didn't even know the car was him. I swear."  
  
El took a deep breath and put on his most patient expression. "Start at the beginning."  
  
"I saved for two years for that car and-"  
  
"Not..." He held up a hand for silence. "...that far back. Has something happened to my friend?"  
  
"Sands never had any friends."  
  
"He does now," El said flatly. "What have you done to him?"  
  
"Nothing! I swear. It wasn't my fault. I didn't know."  
  
"Where is he then?"  
  
"I don't know. They took him. I was lucky to get away. They wanted to kill me. If he hadn't fallen when he did..."  
  
El decided he was through being patient. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled his pistol and pointed it at the agent's head. Thomas went white.  
  
"I didn't mean to!" he wailed.  
  
"And I will not mean to pull the trigger, but you will still be in pain. Now, Senor Thomas, start at the beginning and tell me what has happened to Agent Sands."  
  
Thomas swallowed hard and reached for a half-full mug of beer. El's arm shot out and knocked it off the table. "Talk!" he snapped.  
  
"These...these two AFN agents contacted me. I mean...they said they were AFN. They said their agency wanted me to work with them to bring in a killer...a rogue CIA agent."  
  
"Sands."  
  
"Yeah. They said....a woman had called them two months before. Sands' wife."  
  
"His *wife*?" El's eyes narrowed.  
  
"She...she said she was his wife. That he'd killed five men...one of them was an AFN agent. They said they'd been looking for him, to arrest him, but..." He looked longingly at the bar. "Can't I have a-"  
  
El slammed his hand down on the table. His voice was cold with fear for Sands. "You need to start talking more quickly and making more sense with your story, Senor Thomas, before I become angry."  
  
"They almost killed me!"  
  
"And if they kill my friend, *I* will kill you. And it will be slow and painful. Now tell me."  
  
Terror did more to sober him than the cup of coffee the bartender set in front of him. He swallowed half of it, then pulled himself together with an obvious effort.  
  
"These men-Fredo Santini and Javier Gonzalez. They said they'd found Sands, but they wanted a CIA agent-me-to make the arrest, because he was CIA. They said I could be in charge. I thought... Everybody thinks Sands died on the Day of the Dead, in the coup, but they told me he'd just been hurt. That one of the cartel leaders had ripped his eyes out. I thought if I could take him in...they wouldn't think I'm so worthless. So I said okay. You and the other guy were always with him, so I found this girl..."  
  
"It was a trap."  
  
"Yeah. But...they weren't AFN. When we took him out to the car and she was there, and she told them to kill me and-"  
  
"Wait, wait! 'She'?"  
  
"His wife. Senora Ajedrez Sands."  
  
El swore profanely in Spanish. "But you escaped."  
  
"Yeah. He...he ran into Fredo and he told me to run and...I ran."  
  
"You ran and you left him alone with those monsters."  
  
"Well what else could I do? Stand there and get shot? His wife won't hurt him-"  
  
"His so called 'wife' was one of those who took his eyes."  
  
"Oh." Thomas turned even paler. For a moment, El thought the man would faint. "Oh god, what have I done."  
  
"You may have signed my friend's death warrant." El lay the gun on the table. "Do you know where they would take him?"  
  
He shook his head. "We had a motel room...we were using it as our base of operations. I checked there. I never met them anyplace else."  
  
"Did you meet the woman before last night?"  
  
"Yeah. She lived outside of town..."  
  
"The Barillo Estate." That would be too easy.  
  
"Yeah, but she said she'd sold it. She said she didn't need it anymore..." His voice trailed away. "They're really going to kill Jeff, aren't they?"  
  
For a moment, El was taken aback. He had thought of the man as his friend and brother "Roberto" for so many weeks that he had forgotten Sands had another name.  
  
"Aren't they?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"That one guy...Fredo..." He suddenly looked as if he were going to cry. "He's...he wanted to hurt Jeff. I stopped him...mostly..."  
  
"You are a fool, Senor Thomas." He picked up the gun and slid it back into his jacket.  
  
"Can I...is there anything I can do..."  
  
"I think you have done enough. Go home and tell your superiors that Agent Sands is truly dead. You have seen to that."  
  
He heard the man call after him as he stalked from the bar, but he did not look back. He knew if he did, he would kill the man. 


	11. Part 11

Written for fun, no copyright infringement intended, and all that. The guys belong to RR and won't even begin to belong to me until January 20, when the DVD goes on sale (but I *will* be renting them for a few hours at the $1 theater on Thanksgiving).  
  
A huge, huge thank you to Miss Becky for beta reading and for support and encouragement. I know this is going slowly, but if it weren't for her, it probably wouldn't be going at all. And I'd absolutely have said "No way" when the guys suggested a sequel.  
  
Survivors ~ Melody Wilde  
  
Part 11  
  
Sands had clung to one thought throughout the endless night of pain. He had to hold on-to survive-so he could somehow find a way to stop them from killing his friends. His *family*. Nothing else mattered. Nothing either of them could do to him was as terrible as the idea of them murdering the only people who had ever really mattered to him.  
  
Ajedrez had explained her plan early on, after Fredo had settled her for her ringside seat and dragged Javier and Sands from the bedroom, muttering again about perversion. Sands had been thrown to the floor beside the couch, where she could reach down and stroke his hair like the lover she had once been and laugh at the way he was already trembling with pain.  
  
"My life is over, Sheldon," she'd murmured to him, caressing the hollows where his eyes had been with a gentleness that was somehow frightening. "I'm dying. All that you did to me-the doctors told me I don't have a long time left. But before I die, I want to see you dead too. I want to see you suffer."  
  
"Give it up, sugarbutt..."  
  
She had been casually brutal, tearing a thin, nasal whine from him. She'd waited until the sounds had died away, then gone on as if there had been no interruption.  
  
"Tonight is for me, and for Fredo and for Javier. They, too, have lost everything-their home, their livelihood, their friends. Tonight we will enjoy you, but not hurt you so badly that you die. Tomorrow morning, Fredo will go into the city and find your friend the mariachi and kill him. And then we will all go to your village, to your home, and they will hurt the woman and the boy and let you hear their screams and then kill them. After that..."  
  
Her fingers had twined in his hair again. "After that, Fredo and Javier will take you out into the desert and bind you and leave you to die. Then we will go away. They have promised to stay with me for as long as I live."  
  
He'd been screaming inside, but he'd forced his voice to be light. "Golly gee, that's awfully sweet of them. I wouldn't have thought they had it in them."  
  
"They have many things in them, Sheldon." She'd laughed and switched to Spanish. "//We have so little time tonight. Fredo? Begin.//"  
  
And he had.  
  
The men had taken turns with him, their methods different but equally effective. Ajedrez had lain on the sofa, watching, laughing, occasionally offering a suggestion. Their goal this time seemed to be to inflict a series of smaller hurts-blows, bruises, cuts, a broken finger, a few broken ribs. Things that made him groan and cry out with pain but didn't threaten his life.  
  
At some point, Ajedrez had begun to weep softly, like a child who'd had too much pleasure and excitement, and was exhausted by it. Sands had sprawled on the floor, unable to move, and listened with astonishment to the tenderness with which Fredo had lifted her and carried her to bed, to rest for a while. He had stayed with her, leaving Sands alone with Javier. That had been the worst part of the night. He'd been almost happy to hear Fredo return.  
  
He thought the night must be over-they'd left him alone for some time now. He lay where the last blow had sent him, hearing the sounds of movement in the back of the house, catching the faint smell of coffee. His body was a chorus of pain-a fucking Mormon Tabernacle Choir of pain. But they'd left him a long way from dead. Their mistake.  
  
He began to move, cautiously in case they were watching, trying to assess the damage. They'd uncuffed his hands the first time Fredo wanted to do his Almost Dislocate the Shoulder trick. By then he'd already been pretending to be in worse shape than he really was, so they'd never bothered to put the cuffs back on. Another mistake.  
  
He let his right hand slide down his leg to examine the bullet wound. He'd heard Fredo say it was only a scratch. It felt like more than a scratch, but, obviously, he was forced to take their word for it. When he pressed his fingers against the spot, it hurt enough to make him catch his breath, but it didn't start bleeding. He thought the leg might hold him up and work when the time came.  
  
The muscles of his shoulders ached, but he could move them-and his arms. He ran a hand along his ribs, biting back a groan. Again, painful, but his breathing was unimpaired so they hadn't punctured a lung. The little finger of his left hand was broken and the one next to it probably dislocated, but his right hand had only cuts and bruises.  
  
He refused to touch his face. He'd worry about that-and the other injuries- later. And there *would* be a later. He might be blind and outnumbered and hurt, but he was going to kill every one of those fuckmooks, with his bare hands if necessary.  
  
He heard footsteps coming into the room and went still again. Stomping. Fredo. The man came over to him, bent, and rolled him onto his back. He let his head drop to one side in what he hoped was a pitiful manner and gasped.  
  
"//Not feeling so good this morning, are you?//"  
  
He heard the sound of a wheelchair and a low giggle, and knew Ajedrez and Javier had joined the party. "Poor Sheldon," she murmured in a weary voice. It probably had been hard work, lying there and watching her guys beat him. He decided not to voice the thought and, instead, gave another moan.  
  
He heard Fredo straighten and walk away. "//I'll put you on the couch, where you can be more comfortable. Are you sure you'll be all right until I get back?//"  
  
"//Yes, Fredo. Thank you.//"  
  
He heard the sounds of movement, the wheelchair being taken away. Then Javier spoke.  
  
"//Don't worry. I'll take care of her. And *he* won't be going anywhere.//"  
  
"//All right. This shouldn't take long.//"  
  
Footsteps moving away, a door opening and closing, then, from outside, the sound of a car engine. He heard Javier cross the room and pull back the curtains.  
  
"It's a beautiful day," Ajedrez said. "A good day for your friend to die."  
  
He couldn't stop himself. "Maybe...El will...kill him...instead."  
  
It was Javier's turn to come and bend over him. "//You are not so pretty as you were last night.//"  
  
"Yeah. Shit happens."  
  
Javier knelt by his side and he felt fingers trailing across his chest. "//You are not so pretty, but you can still be of...use.//"  
  
The fingers were moving lower. He whimpered and made a weak attempt to move away. "//No...please...please don't...//"  
  
"//Oh for God's sake, Javier!//" Now Ajedrez sounded petulant. Obviously this wasn't one of the things she enjoyed. "//If you have to do that, at least take him into the bedroom so I don't have to watch.//"  
  
"//Of course. Thank you.//" He slid his hands under Sands arms and dragged him to his feet. Sands let his legs buckle, so Javier had to support most of his weight as he was moved across the room.  
  
"//Shut the door,//" she said sulkily.  
  
"//Don't you want to hear him scream?//"  
  
"//Make him scream loudly enough so that I can hear it without hearing...the other.//"  
  
Sands made a weak attempt to struggle as he was thrown onto the bed again, then went limp. "//Please...//"  
  
Javier laughed and reached beneath his body to undo his jeans. "//You disappoint me, Agent Sands. I thought you would have more spirit.//"  
  
Because of the way Sands had fallen, Javier was having trouble undoing the zipper. With an impatient noise, he shoved his other hand beneath Sands.  
  
"//Okay.//"  
  
Sands' elbow came up and went back, into the man's face. He heard the crunch of bone even as he managed to flip himself over onto his back. Javier was shrieking with pain. Sands grabbed the man's head, flung himself upward, and gave the neck a short, sharp twist. Javier went silent.  
  
"Was *that* enough spirit for you, fuckmook?" he whispered, groping for the man's throat. No pulse. No breath. He fought against a giggle. "And fuck *you*, Senor Javier."  
  
Ajedrez was calling from the other room, her tone increasingly anxious. He fumbled for Javier's gun, checked to make sure it was fully loaded, then put a bullet into the man's forehead, just to be sure. Ajedrez went silent at the sound of the gunshot.  
  
"One down."  
  
He desperately wanted to lie there and rest for a few minutes, but he remembered too well the possibility of a cell phone. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up, staggered to the door, and shoved it open.  
  
"Javier?"  
  
Her voice was so small, so lost, that he could almost feel sorry for her. Then he took another step and his body shrieked in dozens of places, reminding him of who-and what-she was. He brought the gun up and stepped into the room.  
  
"Sorry, sugarbutt."  
  
"Oh my god. Sheldon. How did you..."  
  
He let the sound of her voice guide him across the room to stand behind the couch. "Golly, I don't know about you, but I'm having this incredible feeling of deja vu here. Especially the part about you having me hurt." He gave her a tight half-smile.  
  
"Sheldon..."  
  
"Sorry. My name's Roberto." He hooked his arm around her neck, immobilizing her head, then pressed the barrel of the gun to her temple.  
  
If Mamacita ever learned that he'd killed a woman...  
  
"Two down." He pulled the trigger. Then his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor and the world went away in a haze so red that even he could see it.  
  
* * *  
  
He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. Too long. However long it had been, it was too long. Fredo was on his way into the city, to kill El. He had to warn El. Had to find the phone and call the motel...  
  
He clawed his way to his feet and began to stumble around the room, arms out, flailing, searching, knocking over everything in his path, hunting for the phone. He slammed his leg into a table, and pain flared from the gunshot wound, but as the table went over he heard the unmistakable sound of a telephone striking the floor. He dove for it, grabbing the receiver and lifting it to his ear.  
  
Dead. The line was dead. El had cut the line three months before. They'd never fixed it.  
  
He felt the panic rising in a tidal wave, and bared his teeth in a snarl. "Don't freak out here. Stay calm. Think."  
  
A cell phone. He knew Ajedrez had a cell phone. It took three tries before he could become spatially oriented enough to find her cooling body and search it. Nothing. Maybe in her purse then. Or maybe Javier had one. He moved too fast as he started back toward the bedroom, striking the doorway and almost knocking himself down.  
  
"Don't freak out. Don't freak out." He muttered the words over and over under his breath as a mantra to try to keep his mind under control.  
  
There was no cell phone on Javier's belt or in his pockets. He lurched down the hallway, almost falling into the next room, and began to rummage about, his hands moving as quickly as possible over every surface, every unseen item, seeking her purse, a phone-anything-his breathing becoming more and more ragged.  
  
"Don't freak out here. Come on. Don't freak."  
  
Too late. He was alone in the house and he was blind and the fucking phone could be sitting two inches from him and he'd never find it. He felt a wail of terror and anguish gathering in the back of his throat.  
  
"No. Don't..."  
  
The pain and despair overwhelmed him. He found himself on his knees, the misery flowing out of him in great, heaving sobs. He surrendered, letting himself drop to one side and curling into a ball, his body shaking uncontrollably, as if he were caught in a hurricane.  
  
"Oh god..." he gasped. "Somebody. Anybody. Help me. Don't let him kill El. Please. Please..."  
  
* * *  
  
Lorenzo met him at the door to the motel room "//Roberto's not back yet.//"  
  
"//He won't be back. This...this...//" El jerked his head backward toward the CIA agent, who had followed him from the bar, trailing along behind him, begging forgiveness. "//He betrayed Roberto.//"  
  
"//I don't understand. He was going home with the woman...//"  
  
"//It was a trap //" He pushed past Lorenzo and into the room. "//Did you bring in the guns?//"  
  
"//Between the beds.//"  
  
"//Good.//" He crossed the room and knelt to retrieve his weapons. "//Ajedrez has our brother.//"  
  
"//Ajedrez? I thought... She didn't die?//"  
  
"//No. But she will this time.//"  
  
"Senor? Senor, please."  
  
Lorenzo put out an arm to prevent Thomas from entering the room. He glanced at El and raised an eyebrow in question. El shook his head.  
  
"We have nothing more to say to each other, Senor Thomas."  
  
"Let me come with you. I know I made a mistake. I mean, I hated Jeff, but I never would've..."  
  
El moved back toward the door, buckling the gunbelt around his waist as he walked. "We go alone."  
  
"//Where?//"  
  
"//The Barillo Estate. I don't know where else to start. It's as good a place as any.//"  
  
Lorenzo dropped his arm and started to turn. "//Let me get my guns and the car keys-//"  
  
His words were cut off by the crack of a rifle and the whine of a bullet. Lorenzo staggered, eyes widening in shock, then began to fall. El was reaching for him when the next shot came.  
  
* * *  
  
With an effort, Sands finally regained control of his emotions. His so- called sanity. The word made him laugh. All his life he'd considered himself the sanest person he knew. He'd been a strong, always in control kind of guy. It had taken losing his eyes and finding a family to show him the truth.  
  
What he'd once considered weakness-love-was the thing that was giving him strength now. The strength to pull his battered body upright and limp back into the room where he'd been so badly beaten. The strength to remain conscious. The strength to regain the calm he needed. He couldn't afford to break down again. Not yet. Not until he knew Fredo was dead.  
  
He realized that there was nothing he could do for El now. He had to trust in El's ability and in Mamacita's God-and in that order-to keep El safe. He had to trust, but he had to prepare for the worst. To be ready. If Fredo did manage to kill the mariachi, he would come back here, to his friends, to his victim.  
  
If Fredo came back here, he was a dead man. He would never leave the house alive.  
  
Sands positioned himself by a window facing the driveway, the gun held loosely in his hand. He couldn't allow himself to sit or even to lean against the wall. He couldn't take the risk that his physical weakness would overcome him once more. He braced himself and prepared to wait, for however long it took.  
  
"Two down, one to go," he whispered.  
  
* * *  
  
Sands had reached the end of his physical endurance and gone beyond, holding on with grim determination. He'd stood there for what seemed an eternity, feeling the passage of time in the upward movement of the sun's warmth on the window, calling upon reserves of willpower he'd never dreamed he possessed. His body ached from the hours of abuse. His legs had begun to tremble, begging him to let go and allow them fold beneath him. His breath was coming and going in increasingly loud whimpers that he didn't even attempt to silence.  
  
He was so focused on staying on his feet that he almost didn't hear the car approaching the house. The crunch of gravel snapped him to attention and his hand tightened on the gun, raising it. He had four bullets left. He had to make every shot count.  
  
A car door slammed. Running footsteps, coming up the walkway, to the entrance. He shifted, aiming, holding his breath to steady his shaking hand.  
  
"//Javier! We have to- //"  
  
The footsteps stopped. He'd seen Ajedrez. Sands pulled the trigger, then pulled it again.  
  
He heard a body fall backward and a muffled curse, then a scrambling sound as if someone were trying to reach cover. Fuck fuck fuck. The shot hadn't been fatal.  
  
"//Sands.//" Fredo coughed. "//You bastard. I'm going to tear you to pieces.//"  
  
And he probably could right at this moment. Sands began to back away slowly. The door to the hall was ten steps to the left. If he could get to the bedroom...  
  
Some sixth sense made him drop to the floor a heartbeat before Fredo fired the first shot, the bullet zinging over his head.  
  
"//Your friend is dead. I splattered his blood and brains all over the door of your motel room.//"  
  
Sands felt as if a knife had been driven into his stomach, and he went lightheaded. "Don't you fucking freak out again," he mouthed.  
  
"//He screamed like a baby when he died. The way you're going to scream.//"  
  
He began to move backward, slowly, his left hand out. It struck the doorframe and, moving more quickly than he thought possible, he flung himself through it. The wall above him exploded with the impact of a bullet. He rose to his hands and knees, scrambling down the hall, through the bedroom door, slamming it behind him then scooting to the far side of the bed.  
  
El. Fredo had killed El. And there was nothing he could do about it except make sure Fredo never killed anyone else.  
  
The bedroom door began to open slowly. He waited. Two bullets. He wouldn't miss again. He couldn't...  
  
The door was flung open the rest of the way. Footsteps, moving fast, toward him. Too fast for him to aim.  
  
"Got you."  
  
He pulled the trigger, firing at the sound of the voice, as he felt a bullet tear into his arm. His fingers spasmed, firing again, and then he was going sideways, the gun dropping from numb fingers.  
  
Over. It's over. I'm dead.  
  
He didn't even feel himself hit the floor. 


	12. Part 12

These guys don't belong to me-but the DVD does!  
  
If there's anybody out there still waiting for this, I owe you a big apology. A little over two months ago, Real Life jumped up and bit me on the butt.and then wouldn't let go for a long time. I hope this is worth the wait. This is the end of Survivors, but the story will continue in a short sequel, Interlude, and then (if all goes well) another longer story.  
  
Thanks to Miss Becky for making me finish this!  
  
Survivors by Melody Wilde  
  
Part 12  
  
A voice-a vaguely familiar voice-was calling his name, dragging him back from blessed oblivion. At first the sound was distant, easy to ignore, but then it came closer, louder, increasingly anxious. He wished it would shut the fuck up and leave him alone.  
  
"Roberto!"  
  
Hurried footsteps, then a hand on his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. He groaned as full consciousness and pain came rushing back with the movement. "Oh Christ..."  
  
Fredo had killed him. He was dead. But if he was dead, why did it still hurt so much? He opened his eyes...  
  
No eyes. Shit. He was pretty sure they'd let him have his eyes back if he were in Heaven, so that meant he was either somewhere else or he was still alive. Neither option sounded particularly appealing at that moment.  
  
"Roberto, you must wake and tell me if there are others here."  
  
"Others?"  
  
"There are two dead men in this room and a woman-Ajedrez-in the other room. Are there any others?"  
  
"Three down...none to go," he whispered. His brain finally identified the voice. "El?"  
  
"Sí."  
  
"Are we in hell?"  
  
"Not yet, my friend. Although when Mamacita sees you, I think she will make me believe I am. Hold still."  
  
There was a sound of cloth being torn, then his arm was lifted and something was wrapped around it, above the bullet wound, and jerked tight. He made an inarticulate noise and tried to fight away.  
  
"No, lie still. You're bleeding too badly. I have to stop it."  
  
Still bleeding, no eyes, not in hell. "We're not dead?"  
  
"No."  
  
"But Fredo said..." He stopped. What *had* Fredo said? Something about blood and brains on a door and his friend being dead.  
  
"Is Fredo the dead man on the bed or the dead man on the floor?"  
  
"Floor. He said...he'd killed you..."  
  
"He was wrong. Here. Try to sit."  
  
He was pulled upright and tilted sideways to brace against El's shoulder. The movement made him lightheaded and sick to his stomach. Every place in his body that had been hurt during the night chose that moment to scream at him, reminding him of the things that had been done to him, and he stifled a whimper.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
Nowhere near and getting less so every second, but he managed a nod.  
  
"Your CIA friend..." El spat the word. "The one who betrayed you. He is the one who was killed. He moved into the path of a bullet meant for me."  
  
"It was...*his* brains...on the door..."  
  
"Yes."  
  
He heard himself giggle weakly. "Wasn't sure...he had any."  
  
"Roberto..."  
  
"Lorenzo? Is Lorenzo okay?"  
  
"Yes. He was hit, but it is not too serious. He stayed behind to deal with the authorities so I could follow the assassin. Can you stand?"  
  
Stand? He wasn't even doing so well at sitting up. But, once again, he nodded.  
  
El had him halfway to his feet when his body decided it had had enough, and he abruptly went away again.  
  
* * *  
  
El caught Sands before he could hit the floor, lifting him and cradling him close. El felt as if he were caught in some sort of nightmare, thrown back in time to repeat what had happened before-the same house, the same woman, the same damaged man in his arms. Only this time the man was not a stranger. He was a friend. And now, as before, he felt at least partially responsible for what had happened. He had sent the woman to Sands' table. He had set the chain of betrayals in motion. And Sands had been the one to suffer.  
  
He carried Sands outside and eased him down into the front seat of the car, tilting his head back across the seat. Sands looked terrible. He was hours past needing a doctor. But first...  
  
Moving quickly, El re-entered the house to check the bodies, to make sure Ajedrez and her friends were truly dead. Then he struck a match and dropped it on one of the blood-soaked cushions on the couch, beside the woman's body. He waited until the fire was blazing, then turned to go. They would be well away before anyone noticed the smoke. There would be no traces left of this house of evil and pain or of its owner.  
  
Sands was moaning softly as El slid beneath the wheel. When the door slammed, he came awake with a short cry, then twisted his head from side to side. "El?" There was a note of panic in the word that made El's throat tighten.  
  
"I'm here."  
  
Sands took a deep breath, and El could see him fighting to regain control. "I guess we're on the way to the hospital again?"  
  
"Sí."  
  
"You know, we've really got to stop meeting like this."  
  
El forced a laugh. "This will be the last time."  
  
"Golly, El, I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that," he said brightly. "Because I have to tell you, I'm getting a little tired of being hurt." He turned his head again and sniffed. "Smoke?"  
  
"I set fire to the house and the people within it. It will be gone soon." El started the car and headed down the driveway. "What happened?"  
  
The false cheer faded. When he spoke again, Sands' voice was weary. "It doesn't matter."  
  
"I know the woman-and your friend-betrayed you, and that your friend was betrayed in turn."  
  
"That pretty much sums it up. Ever think about getting a job with Readers' Digest?"  
  
El gave a quick glance sideways. Sands was leaning against the door, his head drooping, his body beginning to shiver with reaction. Those monsters had held him captive all night. He'd had to endure their abuse for hours. El felt a sickness rising in his throat.  
  
"What did they-"  
  
"No."  
  
"No?"  
  
"Look, El, if you want to hear the gory details of what they did to me...forget it." Sands' head dipped even lower. "They hurt me-they hurt me a fucking lot-but I'm alive and they're dead. That's all that matters."  
  
"Roberto..."  
  
"That's all that matters," Sands repeated, his voice little more than a whisper.  
  
El pressed down harder on the accelerator and asked nothing more.  
  
* * *  
  
He was going to be all right, with time. The doctors assured him of that. Nothing that had been done to him would leave any permanent damage. His injuries were painful, but they would all heal nicely, with only a few scars.  
  
Sands lay on his right side in the hospital bed, trying to curl into a ball, face buried in the pillow, replaying the doctors' words over and over in an attempt to block out the other voice-his voice-which was explaining to him the ways in which he was *not* going to be all right, not with any amount of time. The doctors were wrong. There *had* been permanent damage. His physical wounds would heal, but he was only now beginning to realize the full extent of the wounds to what Mamacita would probably call his soul.  
  
He must've made a sound, because there was movement and a hand touched his shoulder. He refused to let himself flinch away, refused to let anyone else know what was going on inside his brain. "What?"  
  
"Do you need something for pain?"  
  
El, back from his latest visit with Lorenzo. He shook his head. "No."  
  
"They told me that you are long past your time for medication."  
  
"I know," he whispered. "It's okay. Doesn't hurt much."  
  
It did, of course, too much, but feeling the pain was better than being sent off into Drugland, where the nightmares that were memories came out to play. The drugs made him vulnerable, frightened, not in control. And he had to stay in control. It was getting harder and harder to hang on and pretend everything was all right-that he was all right.  
  
And he *had* been all right-relatively speaking, of course-while it was happening. He'd had a focus; he had to stay alive to try to save the people he loved. That had let him endure anything. Everything. But now the focus was gone. The right people were dead; the right people were alive. Now there was nothing left but the pain, which he could endure, and the memories, which he couldn't. Remembering the horror of being in that house, blind, helpless, never knowing what terrible thing they were going to do to him next...where the next blow would land...where the hands would grab to twist and...  
  
"Roberto!"  
  
Fuck, he'd been whimpering again. El was kneeling beside the bed, so close that he could feel the mariachi's breath on his arm. He wished he could reach out and grab some of that mariachi strength and borrow it for a while- just a little while. Just until he was okay again.  
  
"Let me help you, my friend."  
  
He felt gentle fingers on his hair, stroking, soothing, a touch that somehow didn't cause him fear or pain. Then he heard whispered words of a prayer-a prayer for healing and strength and courage-and he realized what he needed.  
  
"El...take me home?" he whispered. "Please. Take me home." Then he leaned into the comfort of El's touch and allowed himself to fall asleep.  
  
* * *  
  
He decided to pretend to be asleep during the drive so he wouldn't have to talk. He'd let them give him a shot before they left-nothing strong enough to put him under but enough to dull some of the worst of it. He'd said his farewells and thank yous with a hearty cheer that he was far from feeling. He'd let El and the nurse settle him in the back seat of the car, where he could partially lie down, and cocoon him in blankets and pillows. Despite the warmth of the day, he felt frozen inside.  
  
El had spoken only once, early in the journey, asking if he were comfortable. He'd nodded yes and then let his head sink back and made his breathing deepen. El drove slowly and carefully, no sudden turns, no slamming of breaks. He didn't even turn on the radio.  
  
Everything was going to be all right now. He was going home. El had called Mamacita to let her know what had happened, so that she would be prepared. There was a sealed folder with his medical records and treatment instructions, ready to be handed over to the local doctor. They had given El a paper sack filled with his prescriptions-antibiotics and painkillers and whatever else he'd need. He was going to be fine. Everything was going to be all right. He wanted to believe that almost more than he'd ever wanted anything else in his life.  
  
After a time, the drugs took hold and he drifted away.  
  
* * *  
  
Mamacita was waiting on the porch when El pulled into the driveway and stopped the car. She called into the house to Chiclet, then hurried down the steps toward them. El reached over to open the passenger door, and she bent to peer into the back seat, biting her lip.  
  
"Roberto?"  
  
Sands stirred and whispered, "Mama?"  
  
Her eyes filled with tears. "//Yes, my son. Your mama is here.//" She leaned in to lay a hand on his shoulder.  
  
He made a quick, startled movement, then bit back a moan of pain. "Don't..."  
  
She drew back her hand, and her gaze turned toward El. "//What is wrong with him?//"  
  
"//It is as I told you on the phone-he was taken and tortured.//"  
  
Chiclet had come running up beside her. His eyes went wide. "//Tortured?//"  
  
"//Yeah. Not as much fun as you might imagine. Kids don't try this at home.//" Sands gave them a weak half-grin. "//You think I can get out of here now?//"  
  
Because it was difficult to find a place to touch Sands which didn't make him flinch or cry out with pain, it took far longer than it should have to move him from the car into the bedroom they shared. When Sands finally lowered himself onto the bed, he gave a sigh of relief that made El's heart ache.  
  
Mamacita pulled a light blanket over him and bent to kiss his forehead. He turned his face up toward her, his lips parting as if to speak, then shuddered and withdrew into himself again.  
  
"//Thanks//," he mumbled. "//Just...let me sleep for a while, okay.//"  
  
"//Do you want me to sit here with you?//" she whispered.  
  
His head moved once in a no, then ducked into the covers.  
  
"//He'll be all right.//" El pressed a hand under her elbow and led her out of the room, back to the kitchen. "//Do you have coffee?//"  
  
"//Sit down. I'll make some.//"  
  
Chiclet dropped into the chair across from him. "//Who hurt him?//"  
  
El glanced at Mamacita, and she nodded. "//Roberto is his brother. He is old enough to know anything that I am old enough to know.//"  
  
El smiled briefly, then began to speak, telling them everything he knew about what had happened to all of them during those terrible days.  
  
"//They are all dead now?//" she asked when he had finished.  
  
"//Yes.//"  
  
"//Then all we have to worry about is making him well.//"  
  
"//Yes.//"  
  
"//We can do that, can't we, Miguel?//" She reached over to clasp Chiclet's hand. He nodded vehemently.  
  
"//Mamacita, I have to go back to Culiacan, to be with Lorenzo. He has no one-no family-and Roberto-//"  
  
She shushed him with a wave. "//You do not have to explain friendship. Roberto is safe with us. The doctor will be out in the morning to examine him and read his records and see what must be done.//"  
  
"//Thank you. I'll get his medicine and his things.//"  
  
It was late afternoon before he had finished explaining the regimen of drugs and put Sands' clothing and toiletries away. He had not been particularly quiet, but Sands had not stirred, his stillness and soft, even breathing making El believe his friend was truly asleep.  
  
A part of him didn't want to go. Nagged at him, telling him he was needed here more than back with Lorenzo, whose wound was more painful and inconvenient than life-threatening. Insisted that Lorenzo would be all right in the hospital for a few more days. In the end, his affection for his long-time mariachi brother won out over his concern for his newer friend.  
  
He knelt by the bed and brushed his fingertips across the strands of hair which had fallen across the pillow. "Roberto?" There was no response. "Forgive me for abandoning you," he murmured. He leaned forward to touch his lips lightly to Sands' forehead. Then he rose, turned, and left.  
  
* * *  
  
Sands jerked awake with a choked cry, his heart pounding. The tendrils of the nightmare clung to him relentlessly-Javier, laughing with evil delight, holding him down and pressing the point of a knife into the flesh of his thigh.  
  
"No. He's dead." He struggled and managed to sit up, clutching the blanket around him. "I'm home. I'm safe."  
  
He wondered what time it was-how long he'd been asleep. The stillness of the house made him think it was very late and everyone was asleep, but he couldn't hear the familiar sounds of El's deep breathing from the other bed. He leaned back against the wall, biting his lip against the various pains, and took a deep breath.  
  
The nightmare, attacking him here, in this place where he'd been so sure he'd be free of them, told him that he was going to have to do the thing he most wanted to avoid. He was going to have to talk to someone about what had happened, how he was feeling, how afraid he was, how the fear was threatening to take over. He was going to have to open up and bare his soul and ask for help.  
  
Amazingly, the only person he could think of that he wanted to talk to was El. El had been hurt. El had felt as if he were a walking dead man. El would understand in a way no one else could.  
  
As if thinking of the mariachi had conjured him up, the door of their room opened quietly. He lifted his head, a smile-a genuine smile-forming. "El?"  
  
"//No, Roberto. It's me.//"  
  
Mamacita. The smile faded. "//Where's El?//"  
  
"//Gone. He went back to Culiacan to take care of Lorenzo. How do you feel?//"  
  
Cold. He felt cold inside, as if his only hope had just driven away and left him to fend for himself. And maybe his only hope *had* just driven away. Who else would understand? Mamacita? Chiclet? He didn't have anybody else. And he'd be damned if he'd talk to some fucking stranger of a doctor, like they'd wanted him to when he was in the hospital.  
  
"Roberto?"  
  
"//Fine,//" he whispered. "//I'm fine.//"  
  
And he would be. He didn't need El after all. El was a great guy, and maybe a friend, but he could deal with this by himself. Alone. The way he'd always dealt with things, all his life.  
  
"//Is it time for more pills?//"  
  
"//Yes, but...//" Her voice trailed away. "//Oh Roberto.//"  
  
Without a word, he held out his hand. Silently, she dropped the tablets into his hand.  
  
"Gracias." He dry-swallowed them without waiting to see if there was water, then slid back down in the bed. Although it was the most painful way for him to sleep now, he turned onto his left side, turning his back on her, and awkwardly pulled up the covers.  
  
"//Good night, Roberto.//"  
  
He didn't respond. He waited until he heard the door close behind her and her footsteps fade down the hall. Only then did he allow the low whimpers to escape his throat.  
  
"I'll deal with it," he repeated. "Me. Alone."  
  
* * *  
  
The End of "Survivors" / To be continued... 


End file.
